Lydia is dead. But they don’t know this yet…So begins the story of this exquisite debut novel, about a Chinese American family living in 1970s small-town Ohio. Lydia is the favorite child of Marilyn and James Lee; their middle daughter, a girl who inherited her mother’s bright blue eyes and her father’s jet-black hair. Her parents are determined that Lydia will fulfill the dreams they were unable to pursue—in Marilyn’s case that her daughter become a doctor rather than a homemaker, in James’s case that Lydia be popular at school, a girl with a busy social life and the center of every party.
When Lydia’s body is found in the local lake, the delicate balancing act that has been keeping the Lee family together tumbles into chaos, forcing them to confront the long-kept secrets that have been slowly pulling them apart. James, consumed by guilt, sets out on a reckless path that may destroy his marriage. Marilyn, devastated and vengeful, is determined to find a responsible party, no matter what the cost. Lydia’s older brother, Nathan, is certain that the neighborhood bad boy Jack is somehow involved. But it’s the youngest of the family—Hannah—who observes far more than anyone realizes and who may be the only one who knows the truth about what happened.
A profoundly moving story of family, history, and the meaning of home, Everything I Never Told You is both a gripping page-turner and a sensitive family portrait, exploring the divisions between cultures and the rifts within a family, and uncovering the ways in which mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, and husbands and wives struggle, all their lives, to understand one another.
|Publisher:||Penguin Publishing Group|
|Product dimensions:||5.00(w) x 7.70(h) x 0.70(d)|
|Age Range:||18 Years|
About the Author
CELESTE NG grew up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and Shaker Heights, Ohio. She attended Harvard University and earned an MFA from the University of Michigan. She lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, with her husband and son. She is the author of Everything I Never Told You and Little Fires Everywhere.
Read an Excerpt
***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof***
Copyright © 2014 Celeste Ng
Lydia is dead. But they don’t know this yet. 1977, May 3, six thirty in the morning, no one knows anything but this innocuous fact: Lydia is late for breakfast. As always, next to her cereal bowl, her mother has placed a sharpened pencil and Lydia’s physics homework, six problems flagged with small ticks. Driving to work, Lydia’s father nudges the dial toward WXKP, Northwest Ohio’s Best News Source, vexed by the crackles of static. On the stairs, Lydia’s brother yawns, still twined in the tail end of his dream. And in her chair in the corner of the kitchen, Lydia’s sister hunches moon-eyed over her cornflakes, sucking them to pieces one by one, waiting for Lydia to appear. It’s she who says, at last, “Lydia’s taking a long time today.”
Upstairs, Marilyn opens her daughter’s door and sees the bed unslept in: neat hospital corners still pleated beneath the comforter, pillow still fluffed and convex. Nothing seems out of place. Mustard-colored corduroys tangled on the floor, a single rainbow-striped sock. A row of science fair ribbons on the wall, a postcard of Einstein. Lydia’s duffel bag crumpled on the floor of the closet. Lydia’s green bookbag slouched against her desk. Lydia’s bottle of Baby Soft atop the dresser, a sweet, powdery, loved-baby scent still in the air. But no Lydia.
Marilyn closes her eyes. Maybe, when she opens them, Lydia will be there, covers pulled over her head as usual, wisps of hair trailing from beneath. A grumpy lump bundled under the bedspread that she’d somehow missed before. I was in the bathroom, Mom. I went downstairs for some water. I was lying right here all the time. Of course, when she looks, nothing has changed. The closed curtains glow like a blank television screen.
Downstairs, she stops in the doorway of the kitchen, a hand on each side of the frame. Her silence says everything. “I’ll check outside,” she says at last. “Maybe for some reason—” She keeps her gaze trained on the floor as she heads for the front door, as if Lydia’s footprints might be crushed into the hall runner.
Nath says to Hannah, “She was in her room last night. I heard her radio playing. At eleven thirty.” He stops, remembering that he had not said goodnight.
“Can you be kidnapped if you’re sixteen?” Hannah asks. Nath prods at his bowl with a spoon. Cornflakes wilt and sink into clouded milk.
Their mother steps back into the kitchen, and for one glorious fraction of a second Nath sighs with relief: there she is, Lydia, safe and sound. It happens sometimes—their faces are so alike you’d see one in the corner of your eye and mistake her for the other: the same elfish chin and high cheekbones and left-cheek dimple, the same thin-shouldered build. Only the hair color is different, Lydia’s ink-black instead of their mother’s honey-blond. He and Hannah take after their father—once a woman stopped the two of them in the grocery store and asked, “Chinese?” and when they said yes, not wanting to get into halves and wholes, she’d nodded sagely. “I knew it,” she said. “By the eyes.” She’d tugged the corner of each eye outward with a fingertip. But Lydia, defying genetics, somehow has her mother’s blue eyes, and they know this is one more reason she is their mother’s favorite. And their father’s, too.
Then Lydia raises one hand to her brow and becomes his mother again.
“The car’s still here,” she says, but Nath had known it would be. Lydia can’t drive; she doesn’t even have a learner’s permit yet. Last week she’d surprised them all by failing the exam, and their father wouldn’t even let her sit in the driver’s seat without it. Nath stirs his cereal, which has turned to sludge at the bottom of his bowl. The clock in the front hall ticks, then strikes seven thirty. No one moves.
“Are we still going to school today?” Hannah asks.
Marilyn hesitates. Then she goes to her purse and takes out her keychain with a show of efficiency. “You’ve both missed the bus. Nath, take my car and drop Hannah off on your way.” Then: “Don’t worry. We’ll find out what’s going on.” She doesn’t look at either of them. Neither looks at her.
When the children have gone, she takes a mug from the cupboard, trying to keep her hands still. Long ago, when Lydia was a baby, Marilyn had once left her in the living room, playing on a quilt, and went into the kitchen for a cup of tea. She had been only eleven months old. Marilyn took the kettle off the stove and turned to find Lydia standing in the doorway. She had started and set her hand down on the hot burner. A red, spiral welt rose on her palm, and she touched it to her lips and looked at her daughter through watering eyes. Standing there, Lydia was strangely alert, as if she were taking in the kitchen for the first time. Marilyn didn’t think about missing those first steps, or how grown up her daughter had become. The thought that flashed through her mind wasn’t How did I miss it? but What else have you been hiding? Nath had pulled up and wobbled and tipped over and toddled right in front of her, but she didn’t remember Lydia even beginning to stand. Yet she seemed so steady on her bare feet, tiny fingers just peeking from the ruffled sleeve of her romper. Marilyn often had her back turned, opening the refrigerator or turning over the laundry. Lydia could have begun walking weeks ago, while she was bent over a pot, and she would not have known.
She had scooped Lydia up and smoothed her hair and told her how clever she was, how proud her father would be when he came home. But she’d felt as if she’d found a locked door in a familiar room: Lydia, still small enough to cradle, had secrets. Marilyn might feed her and bathe her and coax her legs into pajama pants, but already parts of her life were curtained off. She kissed Lydia’s cheek and pulled her close, trying to warm herself against her daughter’s small body.
Now Marilyn sips tea and remembers that surprise.
The high school’s number is pinned to the corkboard beside the refrigerator, and Marilyn pulls the card down and dials, twisting the cord around her finger while the phone rings.
“Middlewood High,” the secretary says on the fourth ring. “This is Dottie.”
She recalls Dottie: a woman built like a sofa cushion, who still wore her fading red hair in a beehive. “Good morning,” she begins, and falters. “Is my daughter in class this morning?”
Dottie makes a polite cluck of impatience. “To whom am I speaking, please?”
It takes her a moment to remember her own name. “Marilyn. Marilyn Lee. My daughter is Lydia Lee. Tenth grade.”
“Let me look up her schedule. First period—” A pause. “Eleventh-grade physics?”
“Yes, that’s right. With Mr. Kelly.”
“I’ll have someone run down to that classroom and check.” There’s a thud as the secretary sets the receiver down on the desk.
Marilyn studies her mug, the pool of water it has made on the counter. A few years ago, a little girl had crawled into a storage shed and suffocated. After that the police department sent a flyer to every house: If your child is missing, look for him right away. Check washing machines and clothes dryers, automobile trunks, toolsheds, any places he might have crawled to hide. Call police immediately if your child cannot be found.
“Mrs. Lee?” the secretary says. “Your daughter was not in her first-period class. Are you calling to excuse her absence?”
Marilyn hangs up without replying. She replaces the phone number on the board, her damp fingers smudging the ink so that the digits blur as if in a strong wind, or underwater.
She checks every room, opening every closet. She peeks into the empty garage: nothing but an oil spot on the concrete and the faint, heady smell of gasoline. She’s not sure what she’s looking for: Incriminating footprints? A trail of breadcrumbs? When she was twelve, an older girl from her school had disappeared and turned up dead. Ginny Barron. She’d worn saddle shoes that Marilyn had desperately coveted. She’d gone to the store to buy cigarettes for her father, and two days later they found her body by the side of the road, halfway to Charlottesville, strangled and naked.
Now Marilyn’s mind begins to churn. The summer of Son of Sam has just begun—though the papers have only recently begun to call him by that name—and even in Ohio, headlines blare the latest shooting. In a few months, the police will catch David Berkowitz, and the country will focus again on other things: the death of Elvis, the new Atari, Fonzie soaring over a shark. At this moment, though, when dark-haired New Yorkers are buying blond wigs, the world seems to Marilyn a terrifying and random place. Things like that don’t happen here, she reminds herself. Not in Middlewood, which calls itself a city but is really just a tiny college town of three thousand, where driving an hour gets you only to Toledo, where a Saturday night out means the roller rink or the bowling alley or the drive-in, where even Middlewood Lake, at the center of town, is really just a glorified pond. (She is wrong about this last one: it is a thousand feet across, and it is deep.) Still, the small of her back prickles, like beetles marching down her spine.
Inside, Marilyn pulls back the shower curtain, rings screeching against rod, and stares at the white curve of the bathtub. She searches all the cabinets in the kitchen. She looks inside the pantry, the coat closet, the oven. Then she opens the refrigerator and peers inside. Olives. Milk. A pink foam package of chicken, a head of iceberg, a cluster of jade-colored grapes. She touches the cool glass of the peanut butter jar and closes the door, shaking her head. As if Lydia would somehow be inside.
Morning sun fills the house, creamy as lemon chiffon, lighting the insides of cupboards and empty closets and clean, bare floors. Marilyn looks down at her hands, empty too and almost aglow in the sunlight. She lifts the phone and dials her husband’s number.
For James, in his office, it is still just another Tuesday, and he clicks his pen against his teeth. A line of smudgy typing teeters slightly uphill: Serbia was one of the most powerful of the Baltic nations. He crosses out Baltic, writes Balkan, turns the page. Archduke France Ferdinand was assassinated by members of Black Ann. Franz, he thinks. Black Hand. Had these students ever opened their books? He pictures himself at the front of the lecture hall, pointer in hand, the map of Europe unfurled behind him. It’s an intro class, “America and the World Wars”; he doesn’t expect depth of knowledge or critical insight. Just a basic understanding of the facts, and one student who can spell Czechoslovakia correctly.
He closes the paper and writes the score on the front page—sixty-five out of one hundred—and circles it. Every year as summer approaches, the students shuffle and rustle; sparks of resentment sizzle up like flares, then sputter out against the windowless walls of the lecture hall. Their papers grow half hearted, paragraphs trailing off, sometimes midsentence, as if the students could not hold a thought that long. Was it a waste, he wonders. All the lecture notes he’s honed, all the color slides of MacArthur and Truman and the maps of Guadalcanal. Nothing more than funny names to giggle at, the whole course just one more requirement to check off the list before they graduated. What else could he expect from this place? He stacks the paper with the others and drops the pen on top. Through the window he can see the small green quad and three kids in blue jeans tossing a Frisbee.
When he was younger, still junior faculty, James was often mistaken for a student himself. That hasn’t happened in years. He’ll be forty-six next spring; he’s tenured, a few silver hairs now mixed in among the black. Sometimes, though, he’s still mistaken for other things. Once, a receptionist at the provost’s office thought he was a visiting diplomat from Japan and asked him about his flight from Tokyo. He enjoys the surprise on people’s faces when he tells them he’s a professor of American history. “Well, I am American,” he says when people blink, a barb of defensiveness in his tone.
Someone knocks: his teaching assistant, Louisa, with a stack of papers.
“Professor Lee. I didn’t mean to bother you, but your door was open.” She sets the essays on his desk and pauses. “These weren’t very good.”
“No. My half weren’t either. I was hoping you had all the As in your stack.”
Louisa laughs. When he’d first seen her, in his graduate seminar last term, she’d surprised him. From the back she could have been his daughter: they had almost the same hair, hanging dark and glossy down to the shoulder blades, the same way of sitting with elbows pulled in close to the body. When she turned around, though, her face was completely her own, narrow where Lydia’s was wide, her eyes brown and steady. “Professor Lee?” she had said, holding out her hand. “I’m Louisa Chen.” Eighteen years at Middlewood College, he’d thought, and here was the first Oriental student he’d ever had. Without realizing it, he had found himself smiling.
Then, a week later, she came to his office. “Is that your family?” she’d asked, tilting the photo on his desk toward her. There was a pause as she studied it. Everyone did the same thing, and that was why he kept the photo on display. He watched her eyes move from his photographic face to his wife’s, then his children’s, then back again. “Oh,” she said after a moment, and he could tell she was trying to hide her confusion. “Your wife’s—not Chinese?”
It was what everyone said. But from her he had expected something different.
“No,” he said, and straightened the frame so that it faced her a little more squarely, a perfect forty-five degree angle to the front of the desk. “No, she isn’t.”
Still, at the end of the fall semester, he’d asked her to act as a grader for his undergraduate lecture. And in April, he’d asked her to be the teaching assistant for his summer course.
“I hope the summer students will be better,” Louisa says now. “A few people insisted that the Cape-to-Cairo Railroad was in Europe. For college students, they have surprising trouble with geography.”
“Well, this isn’t Harvard, that’s for sure,” James says. He pushes the two piles of essays into one and evens them, like a deck of cards, against the desktop. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s all a waste.”
“You can’t blame yourself if the students don’t try. And they’re not all so bad. A few got As.” Louisa blinks at him, her eyes suddenly serious. “Your life is not a waste.”
James had meant only the intro course, teaching these students who, year after year, didn’t care to learn even the basic timeline. She’s twenty-three, he thinks; she knows nothing about life, wasted or otherwise. But it’s a nice thing to hear.
“Stay still,” he says. “There’s something in your hair.” Her hair is cool and a little damp, not quite dry from her morning shower. Louisa holds quite still, her eyes open and fixed on his face. It’s not a flower petal, as he’d first thought. It’s a ladybug, and as he picks it out, it tiptoes, on threadlike yellow legs, to hang upside down from his fingernail.
“Damn things are everywhere this time of year,” says a voice from the doorway, and James looks up to see Stanley Hewitt leaning through. He doesn’t like Stan—a florid ham hock of a man who talks to him loudly and slowly, as if he’s hard of hearing, who makes stupid jokes that start George Washington, Buffalo Bill, and Spiro Agnew walk into a bar . . .
“Did you want something, Stan?” James asks. He’s acutely conscious of his hand, index finger and thumb outstretched as if pointing a popgun at Louisa’s shoulder, and pulls it back.
“Just wanted to ask a question about the dean’s latest memo,” Stanley says, holding up a mimeographed sheet. “Didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”
“I have to get going anyway,” Louisa says. “Have a nice morning, Professor Lee. I’ll see you tomorrow. You too, Professor Hewitt.” As she slides past Stanley into the hallway, James sees that she’s blushing, and his own face grows hot. When she is gone, Stanley seats himself on the corner of James’s desk.
“Good-looking girl,” he says. “She’ll be your assistant this summer too, no?”
“Yes.” James unfolds his hand as the ladybug moves onto his fingertip, walking the path of his fingerprint, around and around in whorls and loops. He wants to smash his fist into the middle of Stanley’s grin, to feel Stanley’s slightly crooked front tooth slice his knuckles. Instead he smashes the ladybug with his thumb. The shell snaps between his fingers, like a popcorn hull, and the insect crumbles to sulfur-colored powder. Stanley keeps running his finger along the spines of James’s books. Later James will long for the ignorant calm of this moment, for that last second when Stan’s leer was the worst problem on his mind. But for now, when the phone rings, he is so relieved at the interruption that at first he doesn’t hear the anxiety in Marilyn’s voice.
“James?” she says. “Could you come home?”
The police tell them lots of teenagers leave home with no warning. Lots of times, they say, the girls are mad at their parents and the parents don’t even know. Nath watches them circulate in his sister’s room. He expects talcum powder and feather dusters, sniffing dogs, magnifying glasses. Instead the policemen just look: at the posters thumbtacked above her desk, the shoes on the floor, the half-opened bookbag. Then the younger one places his palm on the rounded pink lid of Lydia’s perfume bottle, as if cupping a child’s head in his hand.
Most missing-girl cases, the older policeman tells them, resolve themselves within twenty-four hours. The girls come home by themselves.
“What does that mean?” Nath says. “Most? What does that mean?”
Reading Group Guide
1. Discuss the relationships between Nath, Lydia, and Hannah. How do the siblings both understand and mystify one another?
2. Why do you think Lydia is the favorite child of James and Marilyn? How does this pressure affect Lydia, and what kind of impact do you think it has on Nath and Hannah? Do you think it is more difficult for Lydia to be the favorite, or for Nath and Hannah, who are often overlooked by their parents?
3. “So part of him wanted to tell Nath that he knew: what it was like to be teased, what it was like to never fit in. The other part of him wanted to shake his son, to slap him. To shape him into something different. . . . When Marilyn asked what happened, James said merely, with a wave of the hand, ‘Some kids teased him at the pool yesterday. He needs to learn to take a joke.’”
How did you react to the “Marco Polo” pool scene with James and Nath? What do you think of James’s decision?
4. Discuss a situation in which you’ve felt like an outsider. How do the members of the Lee family deal with being measured against stereotypes and others’ perceptions?
5. What is the meaning of the novel’s title? To whom do the “I” and “you” refer?
6. What would have happened if Lydia had reached the dock? Do you think she would have been able to change her parents’ views and expectations of her?
7. This novel says a great deal about the influence our parents can have on us. Do you think the same issues will affect the next generation of Lees? How did your parents influence your childhood?
8. “It struck her then, as if someone had said it aloud: her mother was dead, and the only thing worth remembering about her, in the end, was that she cooked. Marilyn thought uneasily of her own life, of hours spent making breakfasts, serving dinners, packing lunches into neat paper bags.”
Discuss the relationship Marilyn and her mother have to cooking and their roles as stay-at-home mothers. Do you think one is happier or more satisfied?
9. The footprint on the ceiling brings Nath and Lydia closer when they are young, and later, Hannah and James discover it together and laugh. What other objects bring the characters closer together or drive them further apart?
10. There’s so much that the characters keep to themselves. What do you wish they had shared with one another? Do you think an ability to better express themselves would have changed the outcome of the book?
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
I have no idea why this book would get bad reviews on Barnes and Noble. I chose to read this story after discovering that it had been named Amazon's Best Book of 2014 and it had a four star rating on Amazon. I am glad I read it. From beginning to end, this novel captured me. It is a raw and gripping account of a tragic story that we can all learn from. Do not be fooled by poor reviews on BN... this is a very good story that will entrap you from the beginning and will not let you down in the end.
One of three children born to interracial parents, Lydia was clearly the favorite. She was obedient, disciplined, talented, and never caused her parents to worry. When she goes missing and is subsequently found dead, it goes without saying that her parents were truly shocked. It is upon her disappearance that Everything I Never Told You by Celeste Ng begins, and what follows is a stunning portrait of family obligation, sibling rivalry, marriage, growing up, and societal norms. In the wake of Lydia’s death, each member of her family copes differently. Her mom laments the loss of Lydia’s future while regretting her own decisions, her dad seeks solace in unlikely places, and her brother struggles with what he knows about the neighborhood bad boy. Only Lydia’s younger sister has the presence of mind to see the facts for what they really are, but her role in the family prevents her from being outspoken about it. As each member of the family orbits around each other (and not discussing what they know), they give the reader a glimpse into a life that is less picture-perfect than it seems at first. Although Everything I Never Told You is centered around Lydia’s death, it is ultimately a complex story that incorporates racial tensions, academic pressures, and a precarious family dynamic based on regret and hope. Each family member is harboring secrets and battling inner demons, culminating in a story that is both poignant and realistic. If you’re looking for a book that could easily mirror reality in the late 1970′s, then this is the one for you. Allison @ The Book Wheel
I felt like I was walking in all of the characters' shoes, that's how clearly the author described their conflicts and emotions. I definitely had trouble putting it down...I HAD to know why Lydia was dead.
Everything I Never Told You goes to the top of the list of the best books I read this year. It had from the blurb to the very end. I couldn't/wouldn't put it down, no matter how tired I was, I need to know what happened to Lydia. Everything I Never Told You is about a family who entire life changed the moment Lydia, the middle child, didn't come down for breakfast. We get flashbacks on how James and Marilyn Lee met; we learn about their background and the decisions they made that contributed to Lydia's death. In the beginning, as the story became to unfold, I felt sorry for Lydia, but by the end, I was conflicted on how I feel about her. On one hand I feel bad for her, having to live the dreams of her parents; then on the other hand, from being so spoiled and having her way she treated her siblings like pieces of crap, especially Nath. I felt so sorry for Nath and Hannah, definitely Hannah who wasn't even noticed by her family. To me, when the parents actually showed any attention to Nath, Lydia would do or say something to get the attention back to her, even though she supposedly hates it. Don't get me started on James and Marilyn, I can't fathom why they're parents. The fact Marilyn forgot all about Hannah is unbelievable. I guess I can kind of see why Marilyn dotted on Lydia, but for the life of me James reason is hard to. Their marriage was one big "What in the world?" I have to say one of my favorite character's besides Hannah, is Jack, oh I liked him from the beginning, there was something about him that was likable. But once the book goes to a certain part, I was like, "Yes, OMG, yes, I completely understand now. I love this book and could re read over and over again.
Great read on so many levels, incredibly well written and layers of complexity.
Felt like I was reading a Lifetime movie.
I found this story to be sad and truthful. Sometimes parents don't realize the pressure they put on their kids until its too late, sad.
Though you empathize with every character and shudder at their mistakes, you learn what underlying agendas can do to a family without it even being aware of these pressures. Very well-thought out and developed. I would read again!
Finding a place to start when you read a book that feels so personal, so poignant, so beautiful... it's hard to do. As I sit here at my computer contemplating the last 24 hours in which I read Everything I Never Told You, I feel a bit dumbfounded. How do I describe something that feels indescribable? Ultimately I will try my best, but I just want you to know, this is hard to for me to do and I certainly won't do the book justice. The first thing you should know about my review of this book is that it's personal. The main characters in this novel are Asian-Americans living in a quaint All-American community in Middle-of-America Ohio. The Lee family comprises our main characters: including the two parents and three children. From the synopsis and the very first sentence of the book, it is no spoiler that Lydia, the middle child, is dead. Her death, in combination with a long series of miscommunications and years of withholding, creates a cluster of chaos for the Lees, and we see each of them dealing with the loss and life-altering change. We span several decades, starting with the parents, Marilyn and James, as children and growing up in their respective homes in the 1940s and 50s. We then see their meeting in college and course of events that lead them to marriage, three children and Ohio. The storyline jumps around between the five main characters, Lydia included, from present to varying past points in each of their lives. We learn about secrets they are keeping, the misunderstandings and prideful omissions that are quintessential, albeit intensified for the sake of story-telling, in any family. While the plot of the book is seemingly simple, I found it to be complex and infinitely interesting, how it wove in and out of each character's life and how the author chose to move the timeline. I was not wanting for more or feeling bogged down at any point in the book and the flow of the writing felt easy and effortless. Everything I Never Told You is a brilliant example of "less is more," when it comes to writing style and narrative. I found Ng's writing to be refreshingly simple, in the best way, void of any pretentious sentiments or the classic "trying to hard" syndrome books can easily fall victim to -- her writing was fluid and purposeful, each sentence needing to be there. The characters in this book were very real to me -- I personally related to their journey as a mixed-race minority in America, though I did not grow up in the 1950s-1970s, I certainly understand looking around and not seeing yourself in anyone. Being the only one at school who is different. Feeling like you never quite fit in, despite successful grades and the illusion you give outwardly to hide your lack of belonging. These aspects of the story rang true for me and I was so touched to feel like I saw a part of myself in this book. It is a very rare and unique thing for myself and I truly embraced the experience. Each member of the Lee family had at least one aspects of their personality I could relate to -- whether it was James and his desire to achieve more than his parents, or Marilyn and her determination to rise above expectations. Nath's quiet and unseen brilliance or Lydia's desperate need to please. Even little Hannah and her ability to go unnoticed. While I was angry at all members of the family at certain points, I loved them all and felt like I knew them. They each had struggles seen and unseen, and their need to put on a brave face and hide from the world is something I think most people know all too well. This book evokes the need for a multitude of discussions: diversity in books, racism, feminism, tradition, human sexuality and expectations on children. Each conversation warrants it's own post, so for sake of time and sanity, I will refrain from doing that here. But what is important about this book is that in less than 300 pages it addresses each of this topics in a variety of ways. Beautifully written and perfectly executed, I know for a fact that Everything I Never Told You by Celeste Ng will go down as one of my favorite books of all time. 5 brilliant stars!
This is my first audio book, and I found myself liking it a bit too much. Perhaps it was her soothing voice, perhaps it was just being read to again but I found myself falling asleep a few times. I told myself I was not going to multitask while listening because I knew I might find myself not listening/paying attention and I really wanted the full experience. That being said, I am hooked! Listening to a book on tape is so different from reading the text myself, as I felt the reader threw her own emotions out there for me as she read. I felt either I could validate them myself or go against them. When she spoke, I was either going to feel the same emotions or not, did I feel the hostility/adoration among the characters in the same manner as she did? It was so interesting to sit back and think about this as she read to me. I never really thought about this before, but what a huge influence this reader was having on others. I applied this thought to when I read to others; when I raise and lower the pitch of my voice, emphasizing and drawing out words, I am actually influencing them more than I thought. I guess I should stop and ask them if they feel the same emotion, it just might be an eye-opener. So why did Lydia go out into the lake by herself? To take a rowboat out at night, into the lake where her body would breathe its last breath, just didn’t make any sense to anyone who knew Lydia. This heartbreaking event crushes her family, leaving her parents searching for answers. Beginning the book with this tragic event, I have just read what happens towards the end of the book. The author quickly turns back time so we can get a true picture of the whole family before the event occurred. Starting before their mixed marriage, we discover the issues the parents had before tying the knot. Mother had high hopes for her life, a professional career, which was the furthest thing from her mother’s mind. Love got in the way though and then life got busy. I liked the pacing of the book, as time moves quickly yet it slows when the important things in life occurred within the family. Every member of the family is highlighted, all their lives are important as we observe The Lee family. For somewhere within this household lies the clues that lead Lydia to take the boat out that evening, the evening that added another chapter to The Lee household. Thank you Ford Audiobook Club for the book.
Seemed like the least I could do after thoroughly enjoying this book. Well written and at times painfully real, this book gave words to feelings I've never known quite how to articulate myself.
Loved it! Could not put it down!! Love Celeste Ng, her writing flows like poetry. Her characters are so real, you are there with them and feel their pain, anger, love, disappointments, I cried for them and miss every single one in the Lee family. Highly recommend that everyone read this fabulous book. Also recommend Little Fires Everywhere, another treasure of a book. Can't wait for her next book! Celeste Ng is my absolute favorite new author!!
I was hesitant to read this because of thhe moxed reviews but im so glad i did. The story and writing were hauntingly beautiful. I am a picky reader and often feel bored by what is out there to read. Every once in a while i find a book that i can't put down. This was one of them and will stay with me for a while. I highly recommend it.
This is a difficult book to put down. Characters are so well developed that one would recognize them.
This book will rip you apart!
Depressing story about a mother who didn't forfill her own dreams and forced them on her daughter. Felt sorry for
This book shows how a single thread can intwine its way through many layers of generations
Good writer. Nowadays we all accept each other . Thank goodness .
Our book club chose Ng's book for our June meeting. I just completed it and cried through the last pages. A book rarely touches me so deeply that I actually shed tears, but this is an exceptional piece of writing. The characters are realistic, the story is poignant, and the writing. . . well. . . a work of perfection. The story is a mystery, but not in the usual sense. It deals with the mystery of a girl's death, but the mystery is deeper, much deeper, than how she died. This book will linger in my mind for years to come.
<b>Everything I Never Told You</b> by Celeste Ng 5 Stars Secrets can kill. Not just the big ones, but the little ones that we live with everyday. They have a way of dragging you down like a weight, and if you can't let them go they will pull you to the bottom until you no longer have the ability escape. This book is a story of secrets. Marilyn can't escape her dissatisfaction with how her life turned out, James longs to be just like everyone else and not the perpetual outsider, Nath just wants to escape, Hannah craves love and affection but has learned that invisibility is her lot in life, and Lydia is searching for freedom from all the expectations and the suffocating love her parents have placed on her young shoulders. These are the secrets that haunt the Lee family, the secrets that Lydia can't escape, because Lydia is dead. I absolutely love this book, though I found it incredibly difficult to read from an emotional stand point. I know that not everyone will be able to understand this book. Some people are lucky enough to grow up in families that are close, loving, and able to communicate their feelings. These are the families that don't harbor secret pains and disappointments. The Lee family is not one of those families. Neither was mine. I related to this story on a visceral level. The feeling you are the perpetual outsider, the desire to escape, being suffocated under unrealistic expectations are all familiar to me. I still struggle with these emotions daily, only now I get to add a struggle with my life not turning out as I planned to the mix. My family's secrets turned out much the same way, though instead of killing her at 16, my sister's secrets killed her at 40. As I said, this book was all to relatable. The language of the book was straightforward, though the story jumped back and forth in time, slowly teasing out the story, revealing bit by bit the events that brought the Lee family to this point. I fully appreciated this use of style. Had it been written in a linear timeline the impact and suspense would have been lessened. The style also added to the character development, knowing how each member of the Lee family came to to be the person they were added to their depth and realism. Though not everyone will be able to appreciate this book in the same fashion as I do, I still recommend it without reserve. It is a moving and suspenseful portrait of a family and well deserving of all the attention it has received.
A less than mediocre accounting, successfully marketed into the mainstream. Extra large heapings of guilt and misunderstandings throughout the book do not evoke any interest for this reader. It is tiresome treacle; a soap opera as novel.
A beautifully written story about a very sad, regret-filled family. The plot was very depressing.
In any family, there are bargains, expectations, alliances, often unspoken, which drive relationships. This novel explores a family whose complete failure at communication impacts each member in a myriad of ways. The ghostly ties that bind the parents and children in the story create a web of love and tragedy. I thoroughly enjoyed this book and also bought a copy for my DIL.
The book was such an eye opener. I never thought how difficult it was for other ethnic people to live in a white America in the 70’s etc. this is such a heart wrenching book. I’m glad I read it