Wovon wir träumten

Von Julie Otsuka

Ausgezeichnet mit dem PEN / Faulkner Award 2012, dem Prix Femina Etranger 2012 und dem Albatros-Literaturpreis 2014.

"Auf dem Schiff waren die meisten von uns Jungfrauen."
So beginnt die berührende Geschichte einer Gruppe junger Frauen, die Anfang des 20. Jahrhunderts als Picture Brides von Japan nach Kalifornien reisen, um japanische Einwanderer zu heiraten. Bis zu ihrer Ankunft kennen die Frauen ihre zukünftigen Männer nur von den strahlenden Fotos der Heiratsvermittler, und auch sonst haben sie äußerst vage Vorstellungen von Amerika, was auf der Schiffsüberfahrt zu wilden Spekulationen führt: Sind die Amerikaner wirklich behaart wie Tiere und zwei Köpfe größer? Was passiert in der Hochzeitsnacht? Wartet jenseits des Ozeans die große Liebe?

Aus ungewöhnlicher, eindringlicher Wir-Perspektive schildert der Roman die unterschiedlichen Schicksale der Frauen: wie sie in San Fransisco ankommen (und in vielen Fällen die Männer von den Fotos nicht wiedererkennen), wie sie ihre ersten Nächte als junge Ehefrauen erleben, Knochenarbeit leisten auf den Feldern oder in den Haushalten weißer Frauen (und von deren Ehe-männern verführt werden), wie sie mit der fremden Sprache und Kultur ringen, Kinder zur Welt bringen (die später ihre Herkunft verleugnen) - und wie sie nach Pearl Harbor erneut zu Außenseitern werden.

Julie Otsuka hat ein elegantes kleines Meisterwerk geschaffen, das in ebenso poetischen wie präzisen Worten eine wahre Geschichte erzählt. 'Wovon wir träumten' verzauberte bereits die Leser in den USA und in England, stürmte dort die Bestsellerlisten, wurde von der Presse hymnisch gefeiert, mit dem PEN / Faulkner Award ausgezeichnet und für zwei weitere große Literaturpreise nominiert; die Übersetzungsrechte sind inzwischen in zahlreiche Länder verkauft.

• Sprache: Deutsch
• Herausgeber: mareverlag
• Erscheinungsdatum: 1. Aug. 2013
• ISBN: 9783866483019

Buchvorschau

Japanerinnen, kommt!

Auf dem Schiff waren die meisten von uns Jungfrauen. Wir hatten langes schwarzes Haar und flache, breite Füße, und wir waren nicht sehr groß. Einige von uns hatten als junge Mädchen nichts als Reisbrei gegessen und hatten leicht krumme Beine, und einige von uns waren erst vierzehn Jahre alt und selbst noch junge Mädchen. Einige von uns kamen aus der Stadt und trugen modische Stadtkleider, doch überwiegend kamen wir vom Land, und auf dem Schiff trugen wir dieselben alten Kimonos, die wir seit Jahren getragen hatten – zerschlissene Kleider von unseren Schwestern, die vielfach geflickt und gefärbt worden waren. Einige von uns kamen aus den Bergen und hatten noch nie das Meer gesehen, außer auf Bildern, und einige von uns waren Fischerstöchter, die ihr ganzes Leben in Meeresnähe verbracht hatten. Vielleicht hatten wir einen Bruder oder Vater ans Meer verloren, oder einen Verlobten; oder jemand, den wir liebten, war eines unglücklichen Morgens ins Meer gesprungen und einfach fortgeschwommen, und nun war es auch für uns an der Zeit, aufzubrechen.

Das Erste, was wir auf dem Schiff machten – bevor wir beschlossen, wen wir mochten und wen nicht, bevor wir einander erzählten, von welcher Insel wir kamen und warum wir weggingen, bevor wir uns bemühten, die Namen der anderen zu lernen –, war, die Fotos unserer Ehemänner zu vergleichen. Es waren gut aussehende junge Männer mit dunklen Augen und vollem Haar und glatter, makelloser Haut. Ihre Kinnpartien waren ausgeprägt. Ihre Haltung: gut. Ihre Nasen waren gerade und lang. Sie sahen aus wie unsere Brüder und Väter zu Hause, nur besser angezogen, in grauen Gehröcken und feinen westlichen Dreiteilern. Einige von ihnen standen auf Gehwegen, vor A-Rahmen-Holzhäusern mit weißen Lattenzäunen und frisch gemähten Vorgärten, und einige posierten in Einfahrten, an ihren Ford Modell T gelehnt. Einige saßen in Studios auf steifen Stühlen mit hoher Lehne, die Hände sauber gefaltet, den Blick direkt in die Kamera gerichtet, als seien sie bereit, die Weltherrschaft zu übernehmen. Ein jeder von ihnen hatte versprochen, da zu sein, auf uns zu warten, in San Francisco, wenn wir in den Hafen einliefen.

Auf dem Schiff fragten wir uns oft: Würden sie uns gefallen? Würden wir sie lieben? Würden wir sie von den Fotos erkennen, wenn wir sie zum ersten Mal auf der Pier erblickten?

Auf dem Schiff schliefen wir ganz unten, auf dem Zwischendeck, wo es schmutzig und dunkel war. Unsere Betten waren enge, übereinandergeschraubte Metallgestelle, und unsere Matratzen waren hart und dünn und voller Flecken von anderen Reisen, anderen Leben. Unsere Kopfkissen waren mit getrockneten Weizenhülsen gefüllt. Im Durchgang zwischen den Kojen lagen überall Essensreste, und die Böden waren nass und glitschig. Es gab ein Bullauge, und abends, sobald die Kabinentür geschlossen war, füllte sich die Dunkelheit mit Flüstern. Wird es wehtun? Körper wälzten sich in den Laken. Das Meer hob und senkte sich. Die Luft war schwül und stickig. Nachts träumten wir von unseren Ehemännern. Wir träumten von neuen Holzsandalen und von endlosen Stoffrollen mit Indigoseide und davon, eines Tages in einem Haus mit Kamin zu wohnen. Wir träumten, wir seien anmutig und groß. Wir träumten, wir seien zurück in den Reisfeldern, denen wir so dringend hatten entkommen wollen. Die Reisfeldträume waren jedes Mal Albträume. Wir träumten von unseren älteren, hübscheren Schwestern, die von unseren Vätern an Geishas verkauft worden waren, sodass wir anderen etwas zu essen hatten, und wenn wir aufwachten, schnappten wir nach Luft. Eine Sekunde lang dachte ich, ich wäre sie.

Während unserer ersten Tage auf dem Schiff waren wir seekrank und konnten das Essen nicht bei uns behalten und mussten wiederholte Spaziergänge zur Reling machen. Einigen von uns war so schwindelig, dass sie nicht laufen konnten; in dumpfer Benommenheit lagen wir in unseren Kojen und wussten kaum noch unsere Namen, ganz zu schweigen von denen unserer neuen Ehemänner. Einmal noch bitte, ich bin Mrs. Wer? Einige von uns krümmten sich und beteten laut zu Kannon, der Göttin der Gnade – Wo bist du? –, während andere von uns eher im Stillen grün wurden. Und oft wurden wir mitten in der Nacht durch eine gewaltige Dünung aus dem Schlaf gerissen, und für einen kurzen Augenblick wussten wir nicht, wo wir waren oder warum unsere Betten nicht aufhörten, sich zu bewegen, und warum uns das Herz bis zum Hals schlug. Ein Erdbeben, war normalerweise der erste Gedanke, der uns in den Sinn kam. Dann streckten wir den Arm nach unseren Müttern aus, in deren Armen wir bis zum Morgen unserer Abreise geschlafen hatten. Ob sie jetzt schliefen? Ob sie träumten? Ob sie Tag und Nacht an uns dachten? Ob sie auf der Straße immer noch drei Schritte hinter unseren Vätern gingen, schwer bepackt, während unsere Väter überhaupt nichts trugen? Ob sie insgeheim neidisch auf uns waren, weil wir weggingen? Habe ich dir nicht alles gegeben? Ob sie daran dachten, unsere alten Kimonos auszulüften? Ob sie daran dachten, die Katzen zu füttern? Ob sie uns auch wirklich alles gesagt hatten, was wir wissen mussten? Halte deine Teetasse mit beiden Händen, bleib aus der Sonne, sprich nie mehr, als du musst.

Die meisten von uns auf dem Schiff waren wohlerzogen und überzeugt, dass sie gute Ehefrauen sein würden. Wir konnten kochen und nähen. Wir konnten Tee servieren und Blumen arrangieren und stundenlang still auf unseren flachen, breiten Füßen sitzen, ohne je etwas von uns zu geben, das von Belang war. Ein Mädchen muss sich einem Zimmer anpassen: Es muss anwesend sein, ohne den Anschein zu erwecken, dass es existiert. Wir wussten uns auf Beerdigungen zu benehmen und konnten kurze, melancholische Gedichte über das Verstreichen des Herbstes schreiben, die genau siebzehn Silben lang waren. Wir konnten Unkraut jäten und Kleinholz hacken und Wasser holen, und eine von uns – die Tochter des Reismüllers – konnte mit einem achtzig Pfund schweren Reissack auf dem Rücken zwei Meilen zu Fuß in die Stadt laufen, ohne dass sie auch nur ein einziges Mal ins Schwitzen kam. Es kommt nur auf die richtige Atmung an. Die meisten von uns hatten gute Manieren und waren überaus höflich, außer wenn sie wütend wurden und fluchten wie die Bierkutscher. Die meisten von uns redeten vornehmlich wie echte Damen, mit hoher Stimme, und gaben vor, weit weniger zu wissen, als es in Wahrheit der Fall war; und wenn wir an den Deckarbeitern vorbeiliefen, achteten wir darauf, kleine Tippelschritte zu machen, die Zehen ordentlich nach innen gerichtet. Denn wie oft hatten unsere Mütter uns eingeschärft: Lauf wie die Stadt, nicht wie der Bauernhof!

Auf dem Schiff krochen wir abends zueinander in die Kojen und blieben stundenlang auf, um den unbekannten Kontinent zu besprechen, der vor uns lag. Angeblich aßen die Menschen dort nichts als Fleisch, und sie waren überall behaart (wir waren überwiegend Buddhistinnen und aßen kein Fleisch, und Haare hatten wir nur an den richtigen Stellen). Die Bäume waren gigantisch. Die Prärien unermesslich weit. Die Frauen waren laut und groß – einen Kopf größer, so hatten wir gehört, als die größten Männer bei uns. Die Sprache war zehnmal schwerer als unsere, und die Sitten waren unfassbar seltsam. Bücher las man von hinten nach vorn, und im Bad benutzte man Seife. Die Nase putzte man sich mit schmutzigen Stofftüchern, die anschließend zurück in die Tasche gestopft, später erneut herausgeholt und wieder und wieder benutzt wurden. Das Gegenteil von Weiß war nicht Rot, sondern Schwarz. Was würde aus uns werden, fragten wir uns, in einem so fremden Land? Wir stellten uns vor, wie wir – ein ungewöhnlich kleines Volk, ausgerüstet mit nichts als unseren Reisehandbüchern – ein Land der Riesen betreten würden. Würde man uns auslachen? Bespucken? Oder, schlimmer noch, würde man uns überhaupt nicht ernst nehmen? Aber selbst die Zögerlichsten unter uns mussten zugeben, dass es besser war, einen Unbekannten in Amerika zu heiraten, als mit einem Bauern aus dem Dorf alt zu werden. Denn in Amerika mussten die Frauen nicht auf dem Feld arbeiten, und es gab genug Reis und Feuerholz für alle. Und wo immer man hinkam, hielten die Männer die Tür auf und tippten sich an ihre Hüte und riefen: »Ladies first« und »Nach Ihnen«.

Einige von uns auf dem Schiff kamen aus Kyoto und waren zierlich und hübsch und hatten ihr gesamtes Leben in abgedunkelten Hinterhofzimmern gewohnt. Einige von uns kamen aus Nara und beteten dreimal täglich zu ihren Vorfahren und schworen, dass sie immer noch die Tempelglocken läuten hören konnten. Einige von uns waren Bauerntöchter aus Yamaguchi, mit kräftigen Handgelenken und breiten Schultern, die nie nach neun ins Bett gegangen waren. Einige von uns kamen aus einem kleinen Bergdorf in Yamanashi und hatten erst kürzlich ihren ersten Zug gesehen. Einige von uns kamen aus Tokio und hatten schon alles gesehen und sprachen ein wunderschönes Japanisch und mischten sich kaum unter die anderen. Viele von uns kamen aus Kagoshima und sprachen einen breiten Süddialekt, den diejenigen aus Tokio vorgaben nicht zu verstehen. Einige von uns kamen aus Hokkaido, wo es verschneit und kalt war, und träumten noch jahrelang von dieser weißen Landschaft. Einige von uns kamen aus Hiroshima, das später in die Luft fliegen sollte, und hatten Glück, überhaupt auf dem Schiff gelandet zu sein, auch wenn sie es damals natürlich noch nicht wussten. Die Jüngste von uns war zwölf, sie kam vom Ostufer des Biwa-Sees und hatte noch nicht einmal ihre Regel. Meine Eltern haben mich für die Verlobungsmitgift verheiratet. Die Älteste von uns war siebenunddreißig, sie kam aus Niigata und hatte sich ihr gesamtes bisheriges Leben um ihren kranken Vater gekümmert, dessen Tod sie jetzt froh und traurig zugleich machte. Ich wusste, dass ich erst heiraten kann, wenn er stirbt. Eine von uns kam aus Kumamoto, wo es keine heiratsfähigen Männer mehr gab – alle heiratsfähigen Männer waren im Jahr zuvor in die Mandschurei gegangen, um dort Arbeit zu suchen –, und schätzte sich glücklich, überhaupt irgendeinen Ehemann gefunden zu haben. Ich habe einen Blick auf sein Foto geworfen und dem Heiratsvermittler gesagt: »Der geht.« Eine von uns kam aus einem Seidenweberdorf in Fukushima und hatte ihren ersten Mann an die Grippe verloren und den zweiten an eine jüngere und hübschere Frau, die auf der anderen Seite des Berges wohnte, und jetzt war sie auf dem Weg nach Amerika, um den dritten zu heiraten. Er ist gesund, er trinkt nicht, er spielt nicht, mehr musste ich nicht wissen. Eine von uns war eine ehemalige Tänzerin aus Nagoya, die sich sehr schön kleidete und durchsichtige weiße Haut hatte und alles über Männer wusste, was es zu wissen gab, und sie war es, der wir jeden Abend unsere Fragen stellten. Wie lang dauert es? Mit Licht an oder

Rezensionen für Wovon wir träumten

[crazy4reading · Bewertung: 3 von 5 Sternen]

I didn't love nor hate this book. The reason I didn't love or hate this book is because it didn't have a story. This had many stories of the picture brides and what happened to them when they came to the west coast. To see how they were treated not only by their husbands but also their employers, and people they met here. To think that we as a society treated and some still do treat people of different cultures so cruelly and with such disrespect for their well being. I like to think that we as a society have improved and aren't living in the 'dark ages'.I am now interested in reading Julie's first book to see if I enjoy that one more since it has a story of just one family.

[bookcrazed_1 · Bewertung: 5 von 5 Sternen]

Otsuka's beautifully written, heart-wrenching novel is written as a first-person everywoman memoir of Japanese mail-order "picture brides" brought to San Francisco in the early twentieth century to work alongside their laboring husbands. For most, it was a joyless life of hard labor and disappointment. Otsuka follows them up until World War II, when their lives or the lives of their children and grandchildren were disrupted with sudden removal to internment camps for the duration of the war: "There were six brothers from a strawberry ranch in Dominguez who left wearing cowboy boots so they wouldn't get bitten by snakes. . . . There were children who left thinking they were going camping. There were children who left thinking they were going hiking, or to the circus, or swimming for the day at the beach. There was a boy on roller skates who did not care where it was he was going as long as there were paved streets." The final chapter is written in the first person of someone who watched her Japanese neighbors herded away: "We began to receive reports of lights left on in some of the Japanese houses, and animals in distress. A listless canary glimpsed through the Fujimotos' front window. Dying koi in a pond over at the Yamaguchis'. And everywhere the dogs. . . . Last loads of laundry still cling to the line. In one of their kitchens---Emi Saito's---a black telephone rings and rings. . . . Morning glories begin to grow wild in their gardens. . . . A lemon tree is dug up over at the Sawadas'. Locks are jimmied off of front and back doors. Cars are stripped." Otsuka has begun with stories of hardship and dashed hope and ends with quiet, emotion-charged intimate details of one of America's most shameful episodes. A difficult and painful read.

[cestovatela · Bewertung: 3 von 5 Sternen]

I like books best when they contain characters. The Buddha in the Attic does contain any characters, and I think this is a problem. Rather than focusing on a few individuals' experiences, the book is told from the first person plural point of view: "On the boat we were mostly virgins. We had long black hair and wide flat feet and we were not very tall..." For the first chapter, I found this method of describing the experiences of early twentieth century Japanese immigrants charming, but soon I began longing for a character I could feel attached to. I kept imagining that this character would arrive on the next page, or perhaps in the next chapter, for a full fifty pages before I realized that the whole book would be narrated by this mysterious "we." This approach is not without some merit. The book feels appealingly sweeping, and I really did feel that I gained a wider understanding of the lives of these women. The language is lyrical, the syntax is impressive, and the book's many small, thoughtful details tugged at my heart. Yet, without a few central characters, the book felt like an exceptionally beautiful non-fiction treatise, or perhaps an interesting experiment in literary style. There was never any suspense to it, and I knew I was never going to stay awake at night turning pages to discover the fate of a character I loved. That made the reading experience kind of hollow.

[silva_44 · Bewertung: 3 von 5 Sternen]

Julie Otsuka's use of a collective narrator was interesting. I appreciated the story of these Japanese picture brides, and the ways in which they dealt with their new lives in America. The subject of the Japanese internment during WWII was handled well. Overall, an interesting read.

[lahochstetler · Bewertung: 4 von 5 Sternen]

This book consists of the stories of Japanese brides sent to California to marry the men who immigrated to the United States in the early-20th century. On the boat crossing the Pacific the women share stories and photos, hearing about the careers and wealth of one another's husbands while also expressing their anxieties about marriage. Arrival in California presents a world most of the women never expected. Most find themselves working to exhaustion in fields with little to show for their labor. They are subjected to racism in all of its forms. Much of what they were promised was a myth. The book follows the experiences of these women, from their time on the boat, through marriage and family life, work, and finally through the hysteria of World War II that led to internment. Otsuka has written this book in the first person plural, a decidedly interesting choice. This has the benefit of allowing Otsuka to explore the varieties and commonalities of these women's experiences. The most interesting and most haunting chapter was the final one, in which white Californians expressed their surprise and wonder at the disappearance of Japanese Americans from their communities. It was astounding how white Americans managed to simply ignore all of the notices that were regularly being addressed to the Japanese community. This book offers a familiar narrative of immigration, resettlement, and racism. What makes this a fresh and interesting story are the unique writing choices Otsuka has made. This is a rather short book, but it seems to be the right length for the manner in which the story is told.

[empress8411 · Bewertung: 5 von 5 Sternen]

It’s hard to explain the plot of this book; it has none and yet, it’s a story unlike any other. Told in First Person Plural, the book is divided into eight chapters: Come, Japanese / First Night / Whites / Babies / The Children / Traitors / Last Day / A Disappearance. Each chapter covers a particular part of life, a gathering of many experiences, told by the voices of many women. First, the women came over from Japan as picture brides, crowded into great steam liners. From there, we follow them through the first night of their marriage, their life working in America, birthing babies and the people these babies would grow into. Then, Pearl Harbor, and the internment of the Japanese. There is more pain then joy in these chapters, these voices, these stories. This is not a pleasant book. There is too much reality to be so. There is joy, but it is laced with suffering, with resignation, with hardship and sacrifice. Otsuka has given a voice to people whose story would be lost otherwise. Worth readying, particularly in today’s volatile social and political climate. The lives of these women have much to share and much to teach.

[nancynova · Bewertung: 5 von 5 Sternen]

A series of stories about Japanese women in the early 1990's traveling to meet their new husbands in America. The stories use spare prose, and a royal "we" language to tell the story of landing in San Francisco, fanning out over California, then being rounded up during WWII and sent to internment camps during the war. The method of storytelling reminded me a lot of O'Brien's Things We Left Behind way of story telling

[kakadoo202 · Bewertung: 4 von 5 Sternen]

i really enjoyed the audio version of this book. it is like a list. lots of different stories told at the same time. you dont follow different people but just unnamed many p. very interesting concept. this part of american history is often swept under thr carpet ,but this books makes it very real. good twist to change the reader when the story changed from the view of the japanese to the view of thr americans.

[rbeffa_2 · Bewertung: 3 von 5 Sternen]

This is a recent short novel about Japanese picture brides coming to San Francisco at some undefined time in the early 20th century (1910's most likely.) It is told in a very artistic manner that initially I found refreshing until I realized the entire story was going to be told like this. We have eight vignettes at different points in time and place of the women/girls from Japan. To me the strongest chapter was the first with the passage across the ocean from Japan to California with a collection of hopes, dreams and fears. The story does not have individual characters to follow through time. There is always a collective "We" with the occasional mention of names, but not anything like a "normal" continuity. As I said the method of storytelling was initially refreshing, but for me ultimately unsatisfying. I am sure other readers may have different reactions. The story is also much darker than I expected. This is the 20th century after all, with all the plusses and minuses that go along with that and we spend a lot of time on the dark side. I didn't like the story but I can admire the skill that created it. There's an odd cadence to much of the writing and while reading this it was almost like a rhythmic chanting of the sentences.

[snash_44 · Bewertung: 3 von 5 Sternen]

The book was a description of Japanese women brought to the US to marry Japanese men in the 1920's and 30's. It presents the variety of experience from farm life to J-town, husbands kind to abusive, having children who shun Japanese culture and then their interment with WWII. The information and the sense of their lives is conveyed, although I found the style of "some of us....." and some of us....." wearing over the course of an entire book

[schmerguls · Bewertung: 3 von 5 Sternen]

I read the author's When the Emperor Was Divine on Feb 11, 2005, and was quite taken by it so I thought I should read her second novel, published in 2011. It is an account of brides selected by Japanese men in the USA from women in Japan. The account tells of the trip to the USA, and the often doleful fate of the women who came expecting a better life but ordianrily most valued for the work they did for their husbands. There are no identified characters as such, and the story is told in the first person plural. I think this detracts from one's identification with the narrators. Sometimes the point of the recitation of dolefulness becomes crushingly monotonous, sorry though one is for teh sorrows the Japanese go through, especially when they are uprooted from their homes in 1942.

[mokkamochi · Bewertung: 3 von 5 Sternen]

The writing style just didn't' appeal to me. The long, looooooong parts of We did this, we did this, we did this, we did this etc.etc., while all factual and with each detail being an interesting little story, the long string was just too boring and tedious to read through. It makes you feel like the author didn't bother to integrate all the collected facts in something other than a shopping-list like sum of events.

[tjsjohanna_1 · Bewertung: 4 von 5 Sternen]

There was so much in this work - so many voices and so many experiences. But I was expecting a novel reading experience and this was more like reading a poem - there was no main character or storyline. In our bookclub one reader posited that the author chose this form to make a point - that to outsiders the Japanese women of this novel were just one big nameless, faceless group. If so, this form is a bit hostile to the reader - saying in effect, "this is all you think of us anyway". I would have enjoyed it more if there had been some consistent storylines that I could follow from chapter to chapter.

[josephj_530382 · Bewertung: 5 von 5 Sternen]

A tremendously well-written piece. The PoV is pitch perfect and the last chapter rocks the reader in the best way, evoking a sense of disorientation that could not have been better pulled off. Highly recommend. Saw Otsuka speak at the Decatur Book Festival, too. She had such stage presence and yet not an ounce of self-promotion. Great book, great writer.

[wassilissa · Bewertung: 4 von 5 Sternen]

Anfang des 20. Jahrhunderts reisen junge Frauen aus Japan nach Amerika, um dort ihre unbekannten japanischen Männer zu heiraten. Sie haben Hoffnungen und Träume, doch die Realität ist nicht vorzustellen. In einer Art kollektiven Litanei erzählt die Autorin das Schicksal all dieser Frauen, das durch den 2. Weltkrieg eine jähe und unerwartete Wendung nimmt.Das Buch ist sprachgewaltig und poetisch zugleich.

[ecataldi-1 · Bewertung: 4 von 5 Sternen]

This is a story that really resonates with you. But the weird thing is, there is no "story." There isn't any real plot or any characters. The story is written in the "we" perspective and chronicles the journey of many young Japanese women that came to America in the early twentieth century. This book aims to be the voice for all the Japanese women of this tumultuous era. The book traces these women as they journey across the ocean, meet their husbands for the first time, learn to deal with white people, had babies, lived under the shadow of Pearl Harbor, and then were finally carted away by the government. This book has a certain poetic quality and does an amazing job of voicing what thousands of Japanese women went through. It's tragically beautiful and haunting. A must read.

[copperskye · Bewertung: 5 von 5 Sternen]

Spare, concise and heartbreaking. The life of Japanese "picture" brides brought to California in the early 20th century. Similar in style and a great companion and prelude to When the Emperor Was Divine, this is not a novel in the traditional sense - it almost reads more like a long poetry piece. The women, although sometimes named individually, are more often referred to as a collective "we". Highly recommended.

[kelappnic · Bewertung: 4 von 5 Sternen]

Loved it. Read it very quickly, and was sad when it was over. I really like this writing style, "collective first person" I believe it's been called, and would actually like to try it out in my own work. Highly recommended.

[peggygillman · Bewertung: 3 von 5 Sternen]

Everything written in the plural...”we”..or “one of us”. The Japanese experience was well communicated and by in large, I enjoyed this book. It got a little tedious in some spots. 5/20/12

[vivl_6 · Bewertung: 5 von 5 Sternen]

Beautiful. I loved the "hive mind" approach to fictionalising oral history, although I know it annoyed some readers: a few members of my book club would have preferred to have followed the individual stories in a more traditional manner. My thought was that to write it that way, while retaining the diversity of experience, would have resulted in a book at least 10 times as long and lacking in the delicious lightness of touch that blesses this slim and enchanting volume. This made me want to know more about the subject, so I was glad to see Julie Otsuka's long list of references at the end. I'm very keen to seek out more of her writing.

[bookconcierge · Bewertung: 4 von 5 Sternen]

In this spare but luminously written novel, Otsuka tells the story of young women who came to America from Japan as “picture brides” in the early 1900s. Through the course of the novel she traces the lives of these immigrants from their journey by boat, to their arrival in San Francisco, their first nights as new wives, their hardships working in unaccustomed ways, their experiences raising children, their relief and pride in building a new life in a new land, and finally to the arrival of war and the loss of what they had built as they were sent with their families to internment camps.

Otsuka won the Pen Faulkner Award for Fiction for this book. She writes mostly in a first person plural voice, using short simple sentences: On the boat we were mostly virgins. We had long black hair and flat wide feet and we were not very tall.
They gave us new names. They called us Helen or Lily.
We gave birth to babies that were so beautiful we could not believe they were ours. We gave birth to babies with colic.
In this way the story is about everyone, or anyone, or no one. Yet it is strongly evocative of time and place, and has an aura of immediacy about it. The reader feels the hopes, sorrows, disappointments, joys, fears, anguish, love, puzzlement, and pride along with these nameless women.

I’ve read other novels that dealt with the internment of Japanese Americans during World War II. Tallgrass by Sandra Dallas and Jamie Ford’s Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet are two examples. But this novel and Otsuka’s previous work, When the Emperor Was Divine, are special in the way she conveys the thoughts and feelings of the Japanese themselves.

Highly recommended.

[chrystal_1 · Bewertung: 4 von 5 Sternen]

I liked the collective "we" point of view. Alot of experiences/events packed into this small package.

[jolleyg_1 · Bewertung: 4 von 5 Sternen]

I had already read "When the Emperor Was Divine," along with other books about the Japanese-American experience leading up to and during the war. So I was anxiously awaiting this book, having heard part of it on NPR's "Selected Shorts."This book reads like a prose poem, and one can imagine a chorus of Japanese-women's voices weaving in and out, first one and then another and then all together.The book is not only about the war experience; it is also about the women's experience of coming over to the US from Japan and the culture shock they experienced as they got used to a totally foreign place.I would have liked to have had a chapter on what things were like as they reintegrated into society after the war.

[bookwoman247 · Bewertung: 4 von 5 Sternen]

This is a vey short historical novel about Japanese mail-order brides, and Japanese-American history. Each of the women's stories told by the author gave the historical aspect a personal angle that I liked. Perhaps the personal touch was also attributable to her shifting, mysterious narrator who was generally part of the collective "we". It's an unusual writing technique that worked well in this novel.

[matthew.ducmanas · Bewertung: 4 von 5 Sternen]

The Buddha in the Attic reads more like a prose poem than a novel. With the predominant theme of displacement running throughout, it is not the most lighthearted of reads. First the reader experiences the displacement of Japanese women making the uncertain voyage to America for arranged marriages, and then the displacement of entire Japanese American communities through their forced removal to internment camps during WWII. Not only does it remind the reader of a shameful moment in American history, but it also speaks to the difficulties immigrants face at any time. Short but strong work.

[pammosk · Bewertung: 5 von 5 Sternen]

Enjoyable, insightful, evokes a wide range of feelings for the reader. Recommend it.

[paulagraph · Bewertung: 3 von 5 Sternen]

Novel is a misnomer for this hypnotic indeterminate prose work. Listing, repetition (anaphora)bring Biblical cadences to this reportage (Japanese American immigrant experience up to & including internment during WWII). This is a Song of Ourselves sung by "we" who are the collective body (mostly female)both part of and apart from an America now called homeland. Mail-order brides, tenant farmers, itinerant field workers, gardeners, maids, prostitutes, shopkeepers, students, American-born children. The moment of disarray, of absence immediately following the expulsion to the camps brings to mind the film A Day Without a Mexican, here transcribed to A Day Without a Japanese American. Experience becomes both universal & entirely personal & unique.

[speedy74_1 · Bewertung: 4 von 5 Sternen]

Written in the first person plural, The Buddha in the Attic is noteworthy more for its interesting lyrical style than its merits as a historical fiction piece on the Japanese immigrant experience. Beginning with the experience of the "picture brides" ordered by Japanese men in the United States, the book spans the period of adjustment these women endure as they enter often loveless marriages in strenuous working conditions. The reader learns of the women's Americanization and their experiences fitting into the "white" world. As the story unfolds, the author describees the experiences of the Japanese people as they were sent to internment camps and the reactions of the people left behind.A uniquely written piece, The Buddha in the Attic is for anyone who appreciates the craft and style of various writers. Even though I grew to enjoy the style, I missed some of the in depth character development that many writers employ. Overall, this book is a quick read and worth the time of readers who enjoy learning about history through the confines of fiction.

[cariola_6 · Bewertung: 3 von 5 Sternen]

I loved Julie Otsuka's When the Emperor Was Divine and have been waiting for years for her to publish a second novel. I had high expectaions, but, sadly, they weren't quite met. The Buddha in the Attic exhibits the same lovely, spare, almost-poetic style, reminiscent of a fine brush lightly stroked across rice paper--nothing to fault there. And in telling bits of the stories of Japanese picture-brides, Otsuka intrigues us with the beautiful, the sad, the mundane, and the horrific. The problem, for me, is her choice of what is mainly a first person plural narration--"we"--to represent them (although periodically she shifts to "they," speaking both of the women's offspring but also of the white Americans, who later become "we"; are you confused yet?). Otsuka claims that she chose this form because "the Japanese are a collective people," but it seemed more like a gimmick to me. There are two main problems with this narration. First, stylistically, it starts to get monotonous, even though some of the details, events and images are striking. Second, aside from the basic fact that all the women are picture brides who emigrate from Japan, they are NOT all from similar backgrounds, nor are all their experiences in America all similar. Here's an example of what I mean--which is NOT Otsuka's exact language but my attempt to recreate a section of the audiobook:Some of our husbands looked like their photographs. Some of our husbands were 20 years older than in their photographs. Some of our husbands had sent us photographs of a handsome friend. Some of our husbands were very tall. Some of our husbands were shorter than we were. All of our husbands had that strange smell. What was it? Some of our husbands beat us every night. One of our husbands treasured his wife like a pearl. Many of our husbands got drunk every night. Some of our husbands bought us special gifts to show their love.Some of our husbands took up our work in the fields when we were too exhausted so the boss wouldn't get mad. Some of our husbands made us sleep on straw in the barn like dogs.Well, you get the idea. I understand why many readers were captivated, but, personally, I wanted to know more about the woman who, when asked if she would sleep with a man for $5, told him she would for 10. I would much have preferred to read the developed stories of a few women's lives than to read these artful lists of "collective" lives. In When the Emperor Was Divine, Otsuka's multiple narrators--simply called the woman, the man, the boy, and the girl--were much more successful, I think, in creating the sense of a community's shared experience. Would I have liked it better in print than on audio? I don't think so; the main reader was actually quite good.

[lizphoto_1 · Bewertung: 4 von 5 Sternen]

"The Buddha in the Attic" was a beautifully written little story. The writing style is in first person plural which was a little hard to get use to at certain times but it did not distract me from the story. The story is written as a everywomen story, where there are no real individual characters or stories, still the story is powerful and should be a definite read. The story follows a group of Japanese mail order brides as they travel to America to meet their husbands and live the American dream in the 1920's. The woman arrive in California and are in complete shock and awe. The husband's are not who they claimed to be and the woman soon realize that they will not have the life they were promised or expected. Instead of being the wife of a silk trader or other respectful job they become housekeepers or field workers. They suffer together as a community with horrible rape, deadly childbirth, the struggle to raise their families, to fit in to the America around themand the betrayal of being considered a enemy and sent away to work camps.