Customer Reviews

Tripmaster Monkey: His Fake Book

5 star:		(5)
4 star:		(2)
3 star:		(1)
2 star:		(2)
1 star:		(1)

 

 

It is hard to believe that "Tripmaster Monkey: His ... Book" is by the same author who wrote "The Woman Warrior." Maxine Hong Kingston's "Tripmaster Monkey" is her first "novel" (though by no means her first foray into fiction), and it is easy to see why there was a nine year gap between this book and "China Men." Kingston's novel, centring on a young, literary minded Chinese American man named Wittman Ah Sing, is meticulously researched and detailed, bringing to life the issues and fads of the mid-1960s Bay Area literary scene. Wittman, largely without an Chinese/Asian American literary tradition, has to overcome (white) racist assumptions of "the artist" in order to produce his truly American play without it being reduced to some "exotic" or "Oriental" exercise in Asianness. Despite the seriousness of Wittman's self- and community-driven mission to be taken seriously as an artist despite the racist assumptions that attempt to stifle his creativity, the novel is extremely funny, witty and surreal. Wittman disturbs a girl he is infatuated with by proclaiming "I am really: the present-day USA incarnation of the King of the Monkeys." Wittman is fired from his department store job because he puts "an organ-grinder's monkey with cymbals attached to its hands" on ..., for customers (children) to see! Wittman's parents abandon his honorary grandmother PoPo high in the Sierra Nevada Mountains to die, and she is later rescued by a wealthy man who just happens to be seeking a wife! In many ways, Kingston's rendering of the surreal, "tripmaster" (mental and physical) wanderings of Wittman resemble the textual flow of the post-"Moby Dick" novels by Herman Melville. As with those later Melville novels, Kingston's own novel is often angry, but is also frightfully funny and filled with accurate observations of life, love and the role of art, religion, philosophy and national identity in society.

Before I read this, I'd only read one other work by Maxine Hong Kingston--not a book, but a short essay. However, just reading that, it was very clear to me that Kingston is a superb writer with a clear, strong voice and a great ear for ambience and cultural innuendos. So I picked this book up.

The beginning of the book was simply stunning. The first few paragraphs were a bit hard to read, being so disjointed and LSD-ish, but once I got over that... Just hearing Wittman Ah Sing neurotically spewing out observations and thoughts about the city and its inhabitants was a real eye-opener. I really got the feel of what it was like to be fifth-generation Chinese-American at that time, and that's no mean feat. Also, later on in the book, near the end, Wittman is raging about how Asian-American writers are all written off as "exotic" or "not quite as exotic as you'd expect." Written with painfully acute perception in masterful language, that section almost trembled with rage and furor at racial stereotypes and prejudices. Yeah, and Wittman kind of grew on me and despite his neuroticism, I came to like him as a character. Perhaps not fleshed out completely well, but still likeable.

That said, though, I can see why this was her first novel. This book needs EDITING. The first part of the book and the last part of the book are excellent. Moving. Perceptive. Real issues, thoughtfully delivered, perhaps without clear-cut answers but then again there are not clear-cut answers to issues of this kind. BUT! If I wanted an LSD trip, I would TAKE an LSD trip. Jesus Christ. The middle section of the book, a few hundred pages, is just pure dribble as Wittman crazily heaves himself here and there while pontificating about some-forgettable-something-or-other. Given how much I feel for the subject, stereotyping and racism, the fact that I COULDN'T get through those pages says a lot. The review a few numbers back is quite funny--the one about how "you idiots don't have enough training in postmodernism to appreciate it, and I do, blah blah blah." It seriously is. But hey--Mr. or Ms. Gloomy Literary Geek With Your Nose Stuck Up in the Air--not all bad writing can be defended by that "oh it's the undereducated reader's fault, blah blah" argument. If that were so, hell, anyone who can hold a pen and spell reasonably would be the next Kundera. It's just like saying "We Lost 'Nam 'Cause You, the American Public, Didn't Support Us Enough!" Revisionist history, revisionist literary criticism. Blame and responsibility assigned on the wrong heads.

That said, though, I gave the book a four-star rating just because of the sheer force, lyricism and perceptiveness of the beginning and the end, around two hundred pages long.

I have a good mind to read Kingston's other books. If her first book's this good, those others are bound to be great.

I just have to wonder--why WASN'T this edited? Surely, with her name value, she could have gotten hold of any number of good editors. It's sad to see such a great book laid to waste.

Until I read Tripmaster Monkey, I was afraid I was the only "Wittman Ah Sing" in the world. I am no longer fearful. Maxine Hong Kingston crafts this book like a tasty dumpling; substantial, filling, and it sticks to your heart (rather than the roof of your mouth). One major incentive of this book is its blatant honesty. This story about an Asian hippie Wittman is not complete without the parent-like nagging of truths, always present, and always raising questions. Perhaps the only negative comment I can render unto this book is that it repeats itself sometimes quite obviously, and that may distract from a (certainly not mine) sensitive reader's enjoyment. However, the complex messages imbued within Tripmaster Monkey are a pleasure to decode and comprehend. Along with entertaining (and all too true) depictions of the Asian-American- I especially rememeber the one about Uncle Bun, the obsessive wheat germ-loving communist- this "fake" book has me firmly convinced it's the real thing. Authentic (for a novel) Maxine Hong Kingston, folks.

Set in the heady days of 1960's San Francisco, this is a bawdy, nonstop picaresque seen through the eyes of its hero: Wittman Ah Sing, recent Berkeley-grad and aspiring poet/playwright whose self-appointed quest is the staging of a massive conglomeration of Chinese myth & literature starring himself & everyone he knows. On the way, he marries, falls in love (though not to the same person), extemporizes hilarious "talk-stories" that get him both into and out of trouble, and learns not a little about himself & what it means to be an American who just happens to also be Chinese. Kingston has woven a vivid tapestry on which Wittman's antics (& heroics) are portrayed in language that never fails to delight. As funny & fun-filled as this novel is, it's also deeply serious about issues as basic as identity (both individual & national) and as topical as the Vietnam War. Think of it as The Joy Luck Club with more brains, more heart, and less syrup. Think of it as the Great American Classic that it is

Kingston's book is the embodiment of post-modern conscience. As such, her writing is fragmented and at times the plot is unintelligible, obscured by intense imagery and rhetoric. The negative response to her work is thus understandable. However, the importance of Kingston's novel lies in its intensity, in its dense language and imagery, and in its ultimate unintelligibility. The lack of superficial structure and form, and the fragmentation of characters and occurences embody the external and internalized difficulties faced by Kingston's protagonist and the diasporic community as a whole, and likewise exemplifies the problems with and responses to diasporic literature. Overall, while obscure and difficult, Kingston's novel is an important feat (both for readers who complete the novel and for Kingston).

This is one of the worst books I've ever read. The storyline is garbled,confusing, and mixed with the consciousness of the protagonist. The characters are eccentric and not all endearing. It was a pain to turn each page. The book saved itself from being a door stopper because of the last chapter. It doesn't completely redeem itself, but it does bring order to the story. If you're a fan of Maxine Hong's read this at your own risk.

I feel so sorry for anyone who has to read this. Granted, it was for a classroom assignment, and for my old lion of a professor who said, "Reading literature (humph!) is not about enjoyment; reading literature is about (humph!) suffering."

Oh, this is suffering, all right.

"Tripmaster" sums this book up perfectly. This entire book READS like an LCD trip. It is so saturated by so many adjectives, unexplained Chinese culture and myth, and literary in-jokes (Ah Bartleby! Ah humanity! Quickly, where does that come from?!) that you feel as though you've just plowed into someone else's conversation by accident. Many lines don't seem to make any kind of sense at all. The prose is awkward at best, and confusing and irritating the rest of the time.

The greatest crime committed here is the characterization. I hated every single character; they were, without fail, unlikable, selfish, and pretentious. They all thought they were the most brilliant people ever born; Ms. Kingston seems to pat herself on the back every time she writes about them. They really all deserved to die. When Wittman sees a bomber in the sky I kept hoping it would accidentally release its payload upon him.

What could be a fascinating look at the 60s and Chinese culture turns out to be nothing less than literary masturbation. Every page I read, I could nearly hear Ms. Kingston saying, "Look at how much I know. My vocabulary is unparalleled! My knowledge of literature, a height untouchable! Look at how perfectly my book breaks the mold. Look at me. Look at me!"

Some difficult texts are worth poring over -- like, oh, Shakespeare, for instance. This piece of filth has no reward to offer you for your diligence. Avoid it for your sanity's sake.

I really do not want to write a bad review of Maxine Hong Kingston's work. Her "Woman Warrior" and "China Men" were wonderful. And she is a wonderful person. But that make me all the more disappointed with "Tripmaster Monkey."

I am quite familiar with post-modern novels, and I find Milan Kundera's roaming meanders and flying leaps a very pleasant read. So my reaction is not to post-modern style but rather to her application of that style.

There are so many layers upon heavy layers of self-indulgent baggage to plod through that reading the book became a nightmarish experience. I always try to read at least 100 pages of any book before abandoning it -- and I abandon books only very rarely. But after 68 pages of "Tripmaster Monkey", I simply could not go on, and I put it back on the shelf.

I may someday try it again. But I doubt it.

her artistic and well crafted words-in attempt to beautify-not trying to simplify-the inner thought that can be painted so devine-it become the sweetest story portraited by verbalize-but you can still visualize.....

It is little wonder that many people will dislike this book. After all, it assumes an advanced reading skill; the ability to follow a disjointed, post-modern narrative; and a spohisticated view of what literature ought to be. Some folks just aint got the stones for that. Poor dears, they are just, well ... let's just say they are limited.

See, there is more to books than just telling a simple story. Sometimes you need to be challenged. That is what really great books do. They challenge the reader to actually flex their minds. Tripmaster does just that.

The story of Wittman's (mis)place in society is a journey of self discovery for both himself and the reader. It brings up obstacles and barriers, both real and imagined, and forces the Wittman/reader to confront them.

Personally, I thoroughly enjoyed this book. Every page had a tangible flavor, and it was a pure joy to see the english language used so deftly. It also helped that I too, like the characters in this novel, am an alumnus of Cal.

Now I totally understand that not every book needs to be challenging or use complicated verbal gymnastics to be considered great. But to off-handedly criticize this book for being a mess or a waste of time reflects more on the readers severe limits and mental weakness rather than the book's.