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The Sympathizer: A Novel (Pulitzer Prize for Fiction) (The Sympathizer, 1) Paperback – April 12, 2016
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Soon to be an HBO Original Series
Winner of the 2016 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction
Winner of the 2016 Edgar Award for Best First Novel
Winner of the 2016 Andrew Carnegie Medal for Excellence in Fiction
One of TIME’s 100 Best Mystery and Thriller Books of All Time
“[A] remarkable debut novel.” —Philip Caputo, New York Times Book Review (cover review)
Winner of the 2016 Pulitzer Prize, a startling debut novel from a powerful new voice featuring one of the most remarkable narrators of recent fiction: a conflicted subversive and idealist working as a double agent in the aftermath of the Vietnam War.
The winner of the 2016 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, as well as seven other awards, The Sympathizer is the breakthrough novel of the year. With the pace and suspense of a thriller and prose that has been compared to Graham Greene and Saul Bellow, The Sympathizer is a sweeping epic of love and betrayal. The narrator, a communist double agent, is a “man of two minds,” a half-French, half-Vietnamese army captain who arranges to come to America after the Fall of Saigon, and while building a new life with other Vietnamese refugees in Los Angeles is secretly reporting back to his communist superiors in Vietnam.
The Sympathizer is a blistering exploration of identity and America, a gripping espionage novel, and a powerful story of love and friendship.
- Print length384 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherGrove Press
- Publication dateApril 12, 2016
- Dimensions5 x 1.25 x 8 inches
- ISBN-100802124941
- ISBN-13978-0802124944
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Editorial Reviews
Review
Winner of the 2016 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction
Winner of the 2016 Edgar Award for Best First Novel
Winner of the 2016 Andrew Carnegie Medal for Excellence in Fiction
Winner of the 2016 Dayton Literary Peace Prize for Fiction
Winner of the 2015 Center for Fiction First Novel Prize
Winner of the 2015-2016 Asian/Pacific American Award for Literature (Adult Fiction)
Winner of the 2016 California Book Award for First Fiction
Winner of the 2017 Association for Asian American Studies Award for Best Book in Creative Writing (Prose)
Finalist for the 2016 PEN/Faulkner Award
Finalist for the 2016 PEN/Robert W. Bingham Prize for Debut Fiction
Finalist for the 2016 Medici Book Club Prize
Finalist for the 2015 Los Angeles Times Book Prize (Mystery/Thriller)
Finalist for the 2016 ABA Indies Choice/E.B. White Read-Aloud Award (Book of the Year, Adult Fiction)
Shortlisted for the 2017 International Dublin Literary AwardOne of TIME’s 100 Best Mystery and Thriller Books of All Time Named a Best Book of the Year on more than twenty lists, including the New York Times Book Review, Wall Street Journal, and Washington Post
“A layered immigrant tale told in the wry, confessional voice of a ‘man of two minds’—and two countries, Vietnam and the United States.”—Pulitzer Prize Citation
“[A] remarkable debut novel . . . [Nguyen] brings a distinctive perspective to the war and its aftermath. His book fills a void in the literature, giving voice to the previously voiceless . . . The nameless protagonist-narrator, a memorable character despite his anonymity, is an Americanized Vietnamese with a divided heart and mind. Nguyen’s skill in portraying this sort of ambivalent personality compares favorably with masters like Conrad, Greene, and le Carré. . . . Both thriller and social satire. . . . In its final chapters, The Sympathizer becomes an absurdist tour de force that might have been written by a Kafka or Genet.”—Philip Caputo, New York Times Book Review (cover review)
“This is more than a fresh perspective on a familiar subject. [The Sympathizer] is intelligent, relentlessly paced and savagely funny . . . The voice of the double-agent narrator, caustic yet disarmingly honest, etches itself on the memory.”—Wall Street Journal (WSJ’s Best Books of 2015)
“Nguyen doesn’t shy away from how traumatic the Vietnam War was for everyone involved. Nor does he pass judgment about where his narrator’s loyalties should lie. Most war stories are clear about which side you should root for—The Sympathizer doesn’t let the reader off the hook so easily . . . Despite how dark it is, The Sympathizer is still a fast-paced, entertaining read . . . a much-needed Vietnamese perspective on the war.”—Bill Gates, Gates Notes
“Extraordinary . . . Surely a new classic of war fiction. . . . [Nguyen] has wrapped a cerebral thriller around a desperate expat story that confronts the existential dilemmas of our age. . . . Laced with insight on the ways nonwhite people are rendered invisible in the propaganda that passes for our pop culture. . . . I haven’t read anything since Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four that illustrates so palpably how a patient tyrant, unmoored from all humane constraint, can reduce a man’s mind to liquid.”—Washington Post
“The great achievement of The Sympathizer is that it gives the Vietnamese a voice and demands that we pay attention. Until now, it’s been largely a one-sided conversation—or at least that’s how it seems in American popular culture . . . We’ve never had a story quite like this one before. . . . [Nguyen] has a great deal to say and a knowing, playful, deeply intelligent voice . . . There are so many passages to admire. Mr. Nguyen is a master of the telling ironic phrase and the biting detail, and the book pulses with Catch-22-style absurdities.”—New York Times
“Beautifully written and meaty . . . really compelling. I had that kid-like feeling of being inside the book.”—Claire Messud, Boston Globe
“Thrilling in its virtuosity, as in its masterly exploitation of the espionage-thriller genre, The Sympathizer was awarded the Pulitzer Prize, and has come to be considered one of the greatest of Vietnam War novels . . . The book’s (unnamed) narrator speaks in an audaciously postmodernist voice, echoing not only Vladimir Nabokov and Ralph Ellison but the Dostoyevsky of Notes from the Underground.”—Joyce Carol Oates, New Yorker
“Gleaming and uproarious, a dark comedy of confession filled with charlatans, delusionists and shameless opportunists . . . The Sympathizer, like Graham Greene’s The Quiet American, examines American intentions, often mixed with hubris, benevolence and ineptitude, that lead the country into conflict.”—Los Angeles Times
“Both a riveting spy novel and a study in identity.”—Entertainment Weekly
“This debut is a page-turner (read: everybody will finish) that makes you reconsider the Vietnam War (read: everyone will have an opinion) . . . Nguyen’s darkly comic novel offers a point of view about American culture that we’ve rarely seen.”—Oprah.com (Oprah’s Book Club Suggestions)
“The novel’s best parts are painful, hilarious exposures of white tone-deafness . . . [the] satire is delicious.”—New Yorker
“The Sympathizer reads as part literary historical fiction, part espionage thriller and part satire. American perceptions of Asians serve as some of the book’s most deliciously tart commentary . . . Nguyen knows of what he writes.”—Los Angeles Times
“Sparkling and audacious . . . Unique and startling . . . Nguyen’s prose is often like a feverish, frenzied dream, a profuse and lively stream of images sparking off the page. . . . Nguyen can be wickedly funny. . . . [His] narrator has an incisive take on Asian-American history and what it means to be a nonwhite American. . . . this remarkable, rollicking read by a Vietnamese immigrant heralds an exciting new voice in American literature.”—Seattle Times
“Stunned, amazed, impressed. [The Sympathizer is] so skillfully and brilliantly executed that I cannot believe this is a first novel. (I should add jealous to my emotions.) Upends our notions of the Vietnam novel.”—Chicago Tribune
“A very special, important, brilliant novel . . . Amazing . . . I don’t say brilliant about a lot of books, but this is a brilliant book . . . A fabulous book . . . that everyone should read.”—Nancy Pearl, KUOW.org
“Dazzling . . . I’ve read scads of Vietnam War books, but The Sympathizer has an exciting quality I haven’t encountered . . . A fascinating exploration of personal identity, cultural identity, and what it means to sympathize with two sides at once.”—John Powers, Fresh Air, NPR (Books I Wish I’d Reviewed)
“Powerful and evocative . . . Gripping.”—San Francisco Chronicle
“Welcome a unique new voice to the literary chorus. . . . [The Sympathizer] is, among other things, a character-driven thriller, a political satire, and a biting historical account of colonization and revolution. It dazzles on all fronts.”—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“[Nguyen’s] books perform an optic tilt about Vietnam and what America did there as profound as Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man and Toni Morrison’s Beloved were to the legacy of racism and slavery.”—John Freeman, Literary Hub
“For those who have been waiting for the great Vietnamese American Vietnam War novel, this is it. More to the point: This is a great American Vietnam War novel. . . . It is the last word (I hope) on the horrors of the Vietnamese re-education camps that our allies were sentenced to when we left them swinging in the wind.”—Vietnam Veterans of America
“What a story . . . [An] absorbing, elegantly written book . . . If you are an American, of any culture or color, you will benefit from reading this book which offers, in exquisite thought and phrase, the multi-layered experience of a war most Americans have blotted out of consciousness, suppressed, or willfully ignored. I’ve been waiting to read this book for decades.”—Alice Walker, author of The Color Purple
“Magisterial. A disturbing, fascinating and darkly comic take on the fall of Saigon and its aftermath, and a powerful examination of guilt and betrayal. The Sympathizer is destined to become a classic and redefine the way we think about the Vietnam War and what it means to win and to lose.”—T.C. Boyle
“Trapped in endless civil war, ‘the man who has two minds’ tortures and is tortured as he tries to meld the halves of his country and of himself. Viet Thanh Nguyen accomplishes this integration in a magnificent feat of storytelling. The Sympathizer is a novel of literary, historical, and political importance.”—Maxine Hong Kingston, author of The Fifth Book of Peace
“It is a strong, strange and liberating joy to read this book, feeling with each page that a broken world is being knitted back together, once again whole and complete. As far as I am concerned, Viet Thanh Nguyen’s The Sympathizer—both a great American novel and a great Vietnamese novel—will close the shelf on the literature of the Vietnam War.”—Bob Shacochis, author of The Woman Who Lost Her Soul
“Read this novel with care; it is easy to read, wry, ironic, wise, and captivating, but it could change not only your outlook on the Vietnam War, but your outlook on what you believe about politics and ideology in general. It does what the best of literature does, expands your consciousness beyond the limitations of your body and individual circumstances.”—Karl Marlantes, author of Matterhorn and What It Is Like to Go to War
“Not only does Viet Thanh Nguyen bring a rare and authentic voice to the body of American literature generated by the Vietnam War, he has created a book that transcends history and politics and nationality and speaks to the enduring theme of literature: the universal quest for self, for identity. The Sympathizer is a stellar debut by a writer of depth and skill.”—Robert Olen Butler, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain
“The Sympathizer is a remarkable and brilliant book. By turns harrowing, and cut through by shards of unexpected and telling humor, this novel gives us the conflict in Vietnam, and its aftermath, in a way that is deeply truthful, and vitally important.”—Vincent Lam, author of Bloodletting and Miraculous Cures and The Headmaster’s Wager
“I think I'd have to go all the way back to Nabokov’s Humbert Humbert to find the last narrative voice that so completely conked me over the head and took me prisoner. Nguyen and his unnamed protagonist certainly have made a name for themselves with one of the smartest, darkest, funniest books you'll read this year.”—David Abrams, author of Fobbit
“Audaciously and vividly imagined. A compelling read.”—Andrew X. Pham, author of Catfish and Mandala
“Nguyen’s cross-grained protagonist exposes the hidden costs in both countries of America’s tragic Asian misadventure. Nguyen’s probing literary art illuminates how Americans failed in their political and military attempt to remake Vietnam—but then succeeded spectacularly in shrouding their failure in Hollywood distortions. Compelling—and profoundly unsettling.”—Booklist (starred review)
“A closely written novel of after-the-war Vietnam, when all that was solid melted into air. As Graham Greene and Robert Stone have taught us, on the streets of Saigon, nothing is as it seems. . . . Think Alan Furst meets Elmore Leonard, and you’ll capture Nguyen at his most surreal . . . Both chilling and funny, and a worthy addition to the library of first-rate novels about the Vietnam War.”—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“[An] astonishing first novel . . . Nguyen’s novel enlivens debate about history and human nature, and his narrator has a poignant often mindful voice.”—Publishers Weekly (starred, boxed review)
“Breathtakingly cynical, the novel has its hilarious moments . . . Ultimately a meditation on war, political movements, America's imperialist role, the CIA, torture, loyalty, and one's personal identity, this is a powerful, thought-provoking work. It's hard to believe this effort . . . is a debut. This is right up there with Denis Johnson's Tree of Smoke."—Library Journal (starred review)
“I cannot remember the last time I read a novel whose protagonist I liked so much. Smart, funny, and self-critical, with a keen sense of when to let a story speak for itself (and when to gloss it with commentary). He’s someone I would like to have a beer with, despite the fact that his life’s work is the betrayal of his friends. . . . [Nguyen] proves a gifted and bold satirist.”—Barnes & Noble Review
“Riveting . . . The Sympathizer is not only a masterly espionage novel, but also a seminal work of 21st century American fiction. Giving voice to the Vietnamese experience in the United States, Nguyen offers profound insights into the legacy of war and the politically and racially charged atmosphere of the 1970s.”—BookReporter
“[A] shimmering debut novel . . . Leaping with lyrical verve, each page turns to a unique and hauntingly familiar voice that refuses to let us forget what people are capable of doing to each other.”—Asian American Writers’ Workshop
“Arresting . . . One of the best pieces of fiction about the Vietnam war—and by a Vietnamese. . . . Stunning . . . Could it be that Nguyen has captured the shape of the devolution of war itself, from grand ambition to human ruin? . . . One of the finest novels of the Vietnam War published in recent years.”—The Daily Beast
“[An] intriguing confessional . . . [a] tour de force . . . So taken was I by the first quarter of the book that I believed myself to be reading an actual confession . . . The character himself . . . and the quality of the narration seized me, leaving me almost breathless in my pursuit of an ending.”—Sewanee Review
“Tremendously funny, with a demanding verbal texture . . . Both tender and a bit of a romp, the book reminded me of how big books can be.”—Guardian (Best Books of 2015)
“Astounding . . . [The unnamed narrator] will be compared to the morally exhausted spies, intelligence officers and double agents of Joseph Conrad, Graham Greene, and John le Carré.”—Toronto Star
About the Author
Product details
- Publisher : Grove Press; Reprint edition (April 12, 2016)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 384 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0802124941
- ISBN-13 : 978-0802124944
- Item Weight : 13.1 ounces
- Dimensions : 5 x 1.25 x 8 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #6,492 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #36 in Cultural Heritage Fiction
- #55 in Espionage Thrillers (Books)
- #658 in Literary Fiction (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
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About the author

Viet Thanh Nguyen was born in Vietnam and raised in America. He is the author of The Committed, which continues the story of The Sympathizer, awarded the 2016 Pulitzer Prize in Fiction, alongside seven other prizes. He is also the author of the short story collection The Refugees; the nonfiction book Nothing Ever Dies, a finalist for the National Book Award and the National Book Critics Circle Award; the children's book Chicken of the Sea, with his son Ellison and with Thi Bui and Hien Bui-Stafford; and is the editor of an anthology of refugee writing, The Displaced. He is a University Professor and the Aerol Arnold Professor of English and American Studies and Ethnicity at the University of Southern California and a recipient of fellowships from the Guggenheim and MacArthur foundations. He lives in Los Angeles.
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‘I am a spy, a sleeper, a spook, a man of two faces. Perhaps not surprisingly, I am also a man of two minds…Sometimes I flatter myself that this is a talent, and although it is admittedly one of a minor nature, it is perhaps also the sole talent I possess. At other times, when I reflect on how I cannot help but observe the world in such a fashion, I wonder if what I have should even be called a talent. After all, a talent is something you use, not something that uses you. The talent you cannot not use, the talent that possesses you—that is a hazard, I must confess.’
This title character, this ‘sympathizer,’ unnamed throughout the novel, is writing his confession, which implies that whatever use he has put his talent to throughout the course of the novel, has gotten him captured or caught in a trap of some kind.
The theme of doubleness permeates almost every aspect of this novel. The title character was the product of a French priest’s rape of a South Vietnamese woman in the 1950’s. At some point he was fortunate to go to the USA for an education, then return to South Vietnam to aid in the South Vietnamese war for independence, becoming the captain of a Special Forces unit and reporting to ‘the General’—many characters in this novel are never named, only referred to by their role in society. The sympathizer is a double agent, ostensibly aiding the South Vietnamese cause but covertly reporting back to his communist North Vietnamese handlers in letters sent back to his “French aunt” in which messages between the lines are written in invisible ink. He went to college with two best friends, Bon and Man. Bon is a fellow South Vietnamese soldier. Man is one of his North Vietnamese handlers.
At one point, the narrator is offered the job of a consultant on the production of a film about the Vietnam War, titled ‘The Hamlet’. What follows is a brilliant satire of American moviemaking in the years immediately following the end of the war. The production has allusions to ‘Apocalypse Now’, ‘Platoon’, ‘Full Metal Jacket’ and many other films of that era. The director of the film, The Auteur, doesn’t really care about authenticity beyond what serves his ‘vision’, despite the Sympathizer’s attempts to populate the extras with authentic South Vietnamese people’ he is pretty clearly Francis Ford Coppola. The Thespian seems modeled after Marlon Brando, the veteran actor whose method acting leads to his refusal to bathe for six months. The narrator pities any actor who has to be in close proximity to the Thespian for hours at a time while the Auteur insists on take after take to arrive at ‘perfection’. Lingering in a set designer-built graveyard on which he wrote the name of his mother, honoring her at a movie grave as he never could honor her at a real one, the Sympathizer is almost killed when the overzealous Auteur adds additional explosives to detonate the graveyard as part of the big climax to the film. He escapes with a concussion and burn injuries, paranoid enough to believe that the timing for the detonation may have been intentional, considering the value the Auteur put on this troublesome Asian’s life.
The Sympathizer executes two ‘double agents’ after presenting evidence to the General to prove his usefulness as a faithful aid but their ghosts haunt him throughout the rest of the novel. When the General rounds up his army of former soldiers that served under him as part of an effort to retake their country back, Bon, who saw his wife and young son killed as they were attempting to board the plane out of Saigon, has nothing left to live for and is anxious to serve in the force. Despite the General’s (and his North Vietnamese handler’s) insistence that he is of much more use to the Movement (overt and covert) by staying behind in the U.S., he insists on accompanying the soldiers back to their homeland. He wants to save Bon’s life but he is aware of the paradox of betraying him while saving him. Both of their lives are spared but they end up as captives, where the Sympathizer is in a solitary cell, given pens and plenty of paper and instructed to write his confession. When the confession is rejected for lack of sincerity and the honest desire to be purged of his subversive inclinations, he is brought to a completely white room and subjected to psychological torture conducted by his other best friend, Man. The torture scenes have a similar effect to the relentless torture in ‘1984’, rendered with tedious monotony until the prisoner has lost all sense of self or identity that enabled him to function as an egoic being.
I bought the ebook version of this novel and highlighted almost every other paragraph of the first half of the book. There are so many quotable passages:
On America: ‘America, land of supermarkets and superhighways, of supersonic jets and Superman, of supercarriers and the Super Bowl! America, a country not content simply to give itself a name on its bloody birth, but one that insisted for the first time in history on a mysterious acronym, USA, a trifecta of letters outdone later only by the quartet of the USSR. Although every country thought itself its own way, was there ever a country that coined so many “super” terms from the federal bank of its narcissism, was not only superconfident but also truly superpowerful, that would not be satisfied until it locked every nation of the world into a full nelson and made it cry Uncle Sam?’
On Hollywood movies made about the Vietnam War: ‘His arrogance marked something new in the world, for this was the first war where the losers would write history instead of the victors, courtesy of the most efficient propaganda machine ever created (with all due respect to Joseph Goebbels and the Nazis, who never achieved global domination). Hollywood’s high priests understood innately the observation of Milton’s Satan, that it was better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven, better to be a villain, loser, or antihero than virtuous extra, so long as one commanded the bright lights of center stage.’
‘The Sympathizer’ is a brilliant espionage novel and a welcome change from the Americentric stories that have been told over the last half century to enable Americans to make narrative sense of a war that was waged and lost for a number of less than noble reasons. What is often lost in Vietnam War narratives is the perspective of the Vietnamese people themselves, including the ‘boat people’, of which Viet Thanh Nguyen is one, having come to the U.S. at the age of four. The nameless narrator’s perspective provides a unique vantage point from which to view the entire episode.
While it is masterful, it doesn’t quite reach universal classic/masterpiece status as one of the works to which it has been compared—Dostoevsky’s ‘Crime and Punishment’, for example. There are a few narrative strands that are not satisfactorily resolved such as the narrator’s affair with the General’s daughter. While the narrator’s re-education by the Communists is questionable, his torturer is not as heartless as he would need to be in order to be an effective brainwasher. The sympathizer lives to occupy another story; hence, the sequel, ‘The Committed’, which I intend to read. ‘The Sympathizer’ is a great novel with a few flaws but definitely worth reading. Viet Thanh Nguyen is a brilliant writer.
Don’t bother reading all the blurbs that go with the paperback edition of this book (The Sympathizer, Grove Press, 382 pages). Just read the first page; already you know you are in the presence of a talented writer. Here’s how we begin:
“I am a spy, a sleeper, a spook, a man of two faces. Perhaps not surprisingly, I am also a man of two minds. I am not some misunderstood mutant from a comic book or a horror movie, although some have treated me as such. I am simply able to see any issue from both sides.”
We are not surprised later to learn that the narrator—never named, known only as the Captain—loves Russian novels, for this first paragraph recalls the beginning of Dostoevsky’s “Notes from the Underground,” featuring one of the most perverse split-personality ironist narrators in the history of world literature: “I’m a sick man . . . I’m a spiteful man. Unpleasant is what I am as a man. I think my liver is diseased. But then, I don’t know jack squat about my illness, and probably don’t even know what hurts where. I don’t seek treatment, and never have, although I respect medicine and doctors.”
Although he is not up in your face as forcefully as is Dostoevsky’s narrator, the Captain is in a similar limbo, living the life of in-between—neither fish nor fowl. Early in his career Dostoevsky wrote “The Double,” featuring a man who literally splits into two, and he was by far not the first European writer to air out the theme of the bifurcated psyche. So here we are, in a novel of the twenty-first century, reaching back into a grand tradition in Western literary art: the theme of the split, the two in one. This is the major theme of The Sympathizer.
The Captain was born bifurcated, and nobody among the Vietnamese who surround him has ever let him forget it. He is “the bastard,” illegitimate son of a Vietnamese mother and a French father, who is a Catholic priest to boot. He is a mixture of the Occident and the Orient. He has lived and studied in the U.S., has an excellent grasp of English and vast insights into American culture. Throughout the novel he seeks a resolution to his bifurcation. He never finds it, and at the end he is just as mixed up and split as he was at the beginning.
The theme is not all-inclusive, but, nonetheless, quite broad. Take Abe, the uncle of the Captain’s Japanese-American mistress (another character living, in her own unique way, with the split). Abe was born Japanese in the U.S., put in an interment camp during W.W. II. After the war, seeking his true identity, he went back to live in Japan, where no one accepted him as Japanese. Neither fish nor fowl.
As the action of the novel begins, we learn that the bi-racial Captain has made one big decision for political oneness. He does not waver between backing the South Vietnamese government, with its American ally, in the war against communism, or backing the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese communists. He has chosen communism, and he works to further the cause of communism throughout the whole novel. But the job he has chosen—sleeper agent—forces him to lead a double life, be an actor perpetually playing a role: “sometimes I dreamed of trying to pull a mask off my face, only to realize that the mask was my face.” Now he knows how Vladimir Putin must feel. As we shall see, he also shares with Putin some views on American foreign policy.
The Captain’s story is intertwined with that of his two blood brothers, fast friends since childhood. One of them, Bon, whose father was murdered by the communists, is a staunch supporter of the South Vietnamese government. The other, Man, like The Captain, fights to liberate the country from the Americans and South Vietnamese. As the action begins, in 1975, Saigon is about to fall to the North Vietnamese troops, while the Americans and their allies—including Bon, The Captain, and The General, the man whom The Captain works for, and spies against—are in full flight back to the U.S.
A large part of the novel’s action is set in California in the seventies, where the expatriate Vietnamese military men end up, and where they plot to return home and overthrow the communists. The Captain goes on ostensibly working as aide to The General, while sending back coded messages to his handler Man in Vietnam. As the title tells us, he is a communist sympathizer. Then again, he professes sympathy as well for “the enemy”: “I confess that after having spent my whole life in their company I cannot help but sympathize with them, as I do with many others. My weakness for sympathizing with others has much to do with my status as bastard.” Later the General asks him, “Do you know what your problem is?” Like all people who ask that question, he answers it himself: “You’re too sympathetic.” As we learn in the final part of the book, the communists who have taken over Vietnam will tell him exactly the same thing.
Then again, the sympathizer is, at many points in the book, not very sympathetic at all. He is personally responsible for the murder of two innocent men in America, and later we learn that he is obliquely responsible for the murder of his own father. As in The Brothers Karamazov—mentioned by name in The Sympathizer—we have the theme of parricide. But even more to the point, Dostoevsky’s final novel airs out the theme of bifurcation and the theme of guilt. It turns out that we are all, to one degree or another, guilty, and that’s what Viet Thanh Nguyen is telling us as well. In the words of Claude, the CIA agent who trains the narrator in interrogation techniques, “Innocence and guilt. These are cosmic issues. We’re all innocent on one level and guilty on another. Isn’t that what Original Sin is all about?” The Captain’s blood brother Man, handler of his sleeper/spy activities, makes exactly the same point: “Of course men will die . . . . . But they aren’t innocent. Neither are we, my friend. We’re revolutionaries, and revolutionaries can never be innocent. We know too much and have done too much.”
This is a book about Original Sin, which receives frequent mention by the narrator, who is laden in his own mind with sin: “I was impure, and impurity was all I wanted and all I deserved.” Brought up as a Catholic, with his father, the priest, force-feeding him in the dogma of Catholicism as a boy, the Captain—now a professed atheist and communist—can’t totally shuck off his Catholic guilt. The two men he has murdered in the U.S. return to him as ghosts and haunt him on a daily basis.
For a book professing to be about Vietnam the theme of America is dominant. The Captain appears to both love and hate the U.S. simultaneously, and here we have another bifurcation. The whole book reeks with Anti-American thoughts and sentiments. “America, land of supermarkets and superhighways, of supersonic jets and Superman, of supercarriers and the Super Bowl! America, a country not content simply to give itself a name on its bloody birth, but one that insisted for the first time in history on a mysterious acronym, USA, a trifecta of letters outdone later only by the quartet of the USSR. Although every country thought itself superior in its own way, was there ever a country that coined so many ‘super’ terms from the federal bank of its narcissism, was not only superconfident but also truly superpowerful, that would not be satisfied until it locked every nation of the world into a full nelson and made it cry Uncle Sam?”
Understandably, The Captain cannot forgive the U.S. for coming to Vietnam to, ostensibly, save the country and then killing three million people and leaving, having saved nothing and nobody. Furthermore, he is rankled by the narrative of the war, perpetuated by Hollywood, which tells only of American glory. This is “the first war where the losers would write history instead of the victors, courtesy of the most efficient propaganda machine ever created” (Hollywood).
“Nothing was more American than wielding a gun and committing oneself to die for freedom and independence, unless it was wielding that gun to take away someone else’s freedom and independence.” Here we get into the issue of American exceptionalism and the self-appointed role of America as policeman of the world, which is Vladimir Putin’s primary beef with the U.S. today.
Resident in America, the General’s wife makes clear her opinion of the country that has given her shelter, stressing “the lewdness and the shallowness and the tawdriness Americans love so much.” After being given a hero’s welcome in the U.S.A. upon his expulsion from the Soviet Union, the writer Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn—to the chagrin of his freedom-loving hosts—made a series of such remarks in his speeches, and I have frequently heard Russian immigrants speaking in the same vein. American the Beautiful is often American the Ugly to them. Or America the Stupid. Looking for more endearments? Here are two others (in a book teeming with them): (1) “the Disneyland ideology followed by most Americans, that theirs was the happiest place on earth;” (2) “As the crapulent major said, A man doesn’t need balls in this country, Captain. The women all have their own.” As a life-long American, I read the plethora of criticisms in The Sympathizer and must admit, alas, their credibility. Even when The Captain asserts that it’s against the law to be unhappy in America. “If I was unhappy, it would reflect badly on me, for Americans saw unhappiness as a moral failure and thought crime.” Too true.
Finally, on page 280, the Captain—on his way out of the country and back to Vietnam—gets around to saying a few good things about the U.S.A. “I thought with regret about all the things I would miss about America: the TV dinner; air-conditioning; a well-regulated traffic system that people actually followed; a relatively low rate of death by gunfire, at least compared with our homeland; the modernist novel; freedom of speech, which, if not as absolute as Americans liked to believe, was still greater in degree than in our homeland; sexual liberation; and, perhaps most of all, that omnipresent American narcotic, optimism, the unending flow of which poured through the American mind continuously, whitewashing the graffiti of despair, rage, hatred, and nihilism scrawled there nightly by the black hoodlums of the unconscious.” Good writing there, but the whole book has sentences like that. Nice.
Then again, the novel is about human bifurcation, so it is only natural that the narrator who hates America also to some degree loves America. In the latter part of the book he arrives back in his homeland, in the company of a group of former South Vietnamese soldiers trying to establish a foothold for a new anti-communist revolution. They are captured by the communists, and now comes the greatest irony in the novel. The sleeper agent, who has worked tirelessly in aid of communism, is not received with open arms. He is stuck into a re-education labor camp, where he is given the opportunity to write a confession, in an effort to purify his soul—badly tainted by Western culture. To do, in effect, the impossible: re-educate himself out of his double nature.
That confession, prepared for the commandant of the camp, comprises the first 307 pages of the book. In the eyes of the communist true believers the Captain’s manuscript is blasphemy. Too many good things, it seems, have been said about the West, too much complexity pervades the pages, no revolutionary slogans have been voiced, even beloved Uncle Ho Chi Minh is mentioned but once. The Captain, so it turns out, is too complicated to be a true revolutionary. True revolutionaries oversimply life’s realities—wiping out all the grays and making them into blacks and whites. But the Captain in his bifurcation is the epitome of gray. Here’s a hypothetical dialogue between him and the commandant.
--Okay, who are you?
--Me, myself, and I.
--Right. You are you yourself and you, but you’re not allowed to be all those. Choose one.
--But how can I choose between me, myself, and me? If I do that, I won’t be truly me, myself, and I anymore.
--Choose!
(Actually, it’s somewhat easier for the Captain—but still impossible—he has to choose only between me and myself.)
What is the first thing that the Grand Socialist Revolution always has to do? Kill off the intellectuals, for the Revolution wants people chanting slogans, but certainly not thinking. “I believed in these slogans,” says the Captain, “but I could not bring myself to write them.” Not really true. He does not believe in the simpleminded slogans of Socialism. He is too intelligent to be a believer in the revolution, and deep down he senses why the Socialist Revolution never works. Revolutionaries think they know something that is really unknowable: who “the people” are for whom they fight. “Like salmon that instinctively knew when to swim upstream, we all knew who the people were and who were not the people. Anyone who had to be told who the people were was not [could not be] one of the people.” The Captain, deep down, is an intellectual, one of those stubborn, reactionary types who will tell you the truth: the whole idea of “the people” is a vast oversimplification and a fraud. Nothing on earth is really black or white; everything is gray. And “Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds,” as Emerson is quoted in this book as saying.
At the end of the book the Captain is put through the same torture methods that the CIA once taught him way back when: sensory deprivation and sleep deprivation. He must learn the error of his ways and be, finally, re-educated to become a true Socialist believer. Of course, the bifurcated man cannot be put back together; he will always be what Dostoevsky’s hero is in “Notes from the Underground”: the man with the disease of hyper-consciousness, he who sees the many sides of any issue, too intelligent for his own good. The main thing he has learned through a lifetime of experience as a sleeper agent is that when the French left, and then when the Americans left, the Vietnamese were not finished with being given the shaft; they began “f….ing themselves now.” Even the narrator’s blood brother Man, the most intelligent character and, at one time, a true believer, ultimately comes to the conclusion that the revolution has failed.
Like Dostoevsky’s Underground Man, The Captain, for all of his apparent efforts to work his way out of his bifurcation, is the eternal rebel, whose allegations that his doubleness dooms him to an alien life are not that believable. He assumes that, as half breed, marriage has been denied to him for all time. But certainly in America—with his excellent knowledge of English and American mores—he could make a marriage if he wished. Bastardy hardly limits one in the U.S., where huge numbers of children are born out of wedlock, and where The Captain could function well in a miscegenated society. Why does he not consider such a move? Because he loves his loneliness, he adores his status as misfit, he revels in the alienation. Incapable of love for anyone but his now dead mother and his three blood brothers, he has no desire to make any accommodation with a woman.
In a kind of deus ex machina ending, Man, now a communist commissar, arranges for the Captain and Bon to escape from Vietnam with the boat people. Even if they survive the journey, we wonder where they will end up. The Captain has burned his bridges in the U.S., having committed a murder (of the character Sonny) just before leaving the country. He will be the prime suspect in that murder, so he cannot return to the beloved/hated U.S. At the end of the novel the man in limbo finds himself in even a physical liminality: he is the eternal displaced person, with no country to call home.
The Sympathizer is full of so many brilliantly written passages that you feel like quoting everything in full. The author has a way of writing set scenes with a mass of accumulated detail. Here are selections from a long passage describing the many fates of the Vietnamese immigrants in the U.S.: “the naïve girl who flew to Spokane to marry her GI sweetheart and was sold to a brothel, and the widower with nine children who went out into a Minnesotan winter and lay down in the snow on his back with mouth open until he was buried and frozen, and the ex-Ranger who bought a gun and dispatched his wife and two children before killing himself in Cleveland, . . . . . and the devout Buddhist who spanked his young son and was arrested for child abuse in Houston, and the proprietor who accepted food stamps for chopsticks and was fined for breaking the law in San Jose, and the husband who slapped his wife and was jailed for domestic violence in Raleigh, . . . . . and the half dozen who went to sleep in a crowded, freezing room in Terre Haute with a charcoal brazier for heat and never woke up, borne to permanent darkness on an invisible cloud of carbon monoxide.”
The above passage goes on for a full two pages, and, eventually, grades into the success stories: “the story of a baby orphan adopted by a Kansas billionaire, or the mechanic who bought a lottery ticket in Arlington and became a multimillionaire, or the girl elected president of her high school class in Baton Rouge, or the boy accepted by Harvard from Fond du Lac.” The whole long riff ends as follows: “So it was that we soaped ourselves in sadness and we rinsed ourselves with hope, and for all that we believed almost every rumor we heard, almost all of us refused to believe that our nation was dead.”
Another wonderful passage describes The Captain’s visit to the home of a Hollywood director, where—after finally breaking his way through the conceited director’s monologue, he delivers a forceful lecture on a subject dear to his heart: how the Vietnamese scream.
“Screams are not universal, I said. If I took this telephone cord and wrapped it around your neck and pulled it tight until your eyes bugged out and your tongue turned black, Violet’s scream [Violet is the director’s assistant] would sound very different from the scream you would be trying to make. Those are two very different kinds of terror coming from a man and a woman. The man knows he is dying. The woman fears she is likely to die soon. Their situations and their bodies produce a qualitatively different timbre to their voices. One must listen to them carefully to understand that while pain is universal, it is also utterly private.”
The power of the above passage is reinforced when The Captain tells us what he was thinking as he impressed the words upon the fatuous director. “I stood up and leaned on the desk to look right into his eyes. But I didn’t see him. What I saw was the face of the wiry Montagnard, an elder of the Bru minority who lived in an actual hamlet not far from the setting of this fiction. Rumor had it that he served as a liaison agent for the Viet Cong. I was on my first assignment as a lieutenant and could not figure out a way to save the man from my captain wrapping a strand of rusted barbed wire around his throat, the necklace tight enough so that each time he swallowed, the wire tickled his Adam’s apple. That was not what made the old man scream, however. It was just the appetizer. In my mind, though, as I watched the scene, I screamed for him.
“Here’s what it sounds like, I said, reaching across the desk to pick up the Auteur’s Montblanc fountain pen. I wrote onomatopoeically across the cover page of the screenplay in big black letters: AIEYAAHHHH!!! Then I capped his pen, put it back on his leather writing pad, and said, That’s how we scream in my country.”
The author has a wonderful feel for the way human psychology works. In the scene describing how The Captain murders the innocent Sonny, there is a suggestion that deep in the neurons of his brain Sonny realizes the danger he is in, but the neurons cannot get the full message to his conscious mind in time. Flustered at the Captain’s admission that he is a sleeper agent, Sonny suggests that the General has put him up to coming here—the General has done so, but he has put out a contract on Sonny’s life. Sonny even once uses the word “kill”: “I think you’ve come here to trick me. You want me to say I’m a communist too, so you can kill me or expose me, don’t you?”
The novel is a bit weaker at the end, where it describes the Captain’s return to Vietnam and his interment in a labor camp for “re-education.” The author, although by birth Vietnamese, has barely ever been in his home country and must make up nearly everything in this part. Consequently, the reader must do a good deal of “suspending disbelief” in the latter pages of the novel. The business about how Man insists on torturing his friend until The Captain understands the meaning of the word “Nothing” is much belabored and, ultimately, unconvincing. Then again, we are expected to believe that by the time we read it, the manuscript (the first 307 pp.) has already been through three drafts, which are redacted by the commandant of the camp. I see little evidence of the viewpoint of a true-believing communist in that manuscript part of the book. One more thing: what language is the ms written in, Vietnamese or English? It is so thoroughly steeped in the English language that one has trouble imagining it written in Vietnamese for the eyes of the commandant. More heavy suspension of disbelief.
A few passages would be wonderful, were they not so suggestive of other Western writers. Take the masturbation scene: “I committed my first unnatural act at thirteen with a gutted squid purloined from my mother’s kitchen.” The story of the love affair with the squid goes on for two pages, and would be more entertaining were not the whole business purloined from Roth’s Portnoy. Once in a while a line sounds like it might have come out of Mickey Spillane, or from Garrison Keillor in the role of Guy Noir: “Her legs demanded to be looked at, and would not take no, non, nein, nyet, or even maybe for an answer.” Then again, the Captain can be quite an innocent for a military man; even though he himself carried a .38 special back in Vietnam, he is unaware that the weapon accommodates five cartridges, not six, as we are told in the novel.
These are mere quibbles, not meant to detract from the brilliance of the novel on the whole. Although the writer has a Vietnamese name, he is, essentially an American, having come to this country at age four. The novel, as well, is set firmly in the tradition of the Western novel. To what extent it may also be in the tradition of the Asian novel, I do not know, as I confess my ignorance of Asian literature. It would be interesting to hear how this book goes over in Vietnam, after it is translated into Vietnamese and published there. You kind of wonder if the Vietnamese reaction might be like the commandant’s reaction to The Captain’s confession: too mired in Western ways, too “American” in its viewpoints. And that would be still one more grand irony.
To return one last time to Dostoevsky, the ending of The Sympathizer reminds me somewhat of the ending of Crime and Punishment. In that novel we are left with the author’s nudging hard at his recalcitrant, atheistic Raskolnikov, with the aid of the unbelievably saintly Sonya, pushing him over into the camp of Russian Orthodox faith, but not quite getting him pushed there. The split-personality “hero” of C and P—so we are told—has made strides forward, but has certainly not yet resolved his split or atoned for having committed murder. It would take another long novel, writes Dostoevsky in the final pages, to describe Raskolnikov’s true religious transformation and healing. Of course, that sequel novel was never written. In his turn, the author of The Sympathizer has mentioned in interviews that he has considered writing a sequel to his novel. He has not suggested, however, that the bifurcated Captain has a chance to resolve his split. Not likely.
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IF YOU ARE WORRIED ABOUT SPOILERS, STOP READING THE REST OF THE REVIEW.
The novel begins with the flight out of Saigon as the Viet Cong close in on the city in April 1975.
The unnamed narrator (I will call him Thanh in this review) darts backwards and forwards in his reminiscences. At the beginning there is a hint (to be fleshed out much later) that most of the book is actually a written confession he is making, in prison, to a Viet Cong Commandant. (It is hard to believe that such a confession should be so long – said to be 295 pages long - and so elaborate and sophisticated in style.)
Thanh is the illegitimate son of a Vietnamese woman and a French priest, and he is very sensitive about being called a bastard. It gives him a split personality, and he tells us at the beginning that he had been a double agent for many years, though he never tells us what his reasons were. He had been attached to the staff of a Vietnamese General who had worked closely with a CIA officer called Claude. Thanh had taken part in interrogations of Viet Cong prisoners. At the same time Tanh had worked with Man, a communist and an old school friend. He is equally friendly with another old schoolmate, Bon, who was fervently anti-Communist.
Thanh organized, with bribes, the flight on a cargo plane of the General and 91 others (including Bon) from Saigon airport. The Communists are bombarding the airport; but, after horrendous scenes, they are airborne and eventually arrive in California. As a younger man, Thanh had studied at the University of Los Angeles, and a former professor of his got him appointed to a clerical position there. He shared an apartment with Bon, who was employed as a part-time janitor by a local church.
He sent secret messages to Man, reporting on unhappy time the Vietnamese exiles had in the United States. (Throughout, the descriptions of this community, now mostly in the humblest of jobs and saturated with nostalgia for Saigon, are very extensive.) When the General, reduced to running a liquor store, discovered (how, it is not clear) that there was a spy among the former soldiers in the refugee community, Thanh, in a panic, suggests it could be a major on the General’s staff. He and Bon are then ordered by the General and by Claude to eliminate him. Thanh feels bad about killing an innocent man, but he aids Bon to do the deed. And the dead major will, ghostlike, haunt his thoughts thereafter.
There is a long interlude in the Philippines: the General had got Thanh to be the consultant to a Hollywood director who was making a propaganda film there about the Vietnam War. Thanh was nearly killed in a scene right at the end of the film.
He returned to the United States, where he General was training a score of veterans to join a camp in Thailand of Vietnamese veterans who were preparing to liberate Vietnam. Thanh passed on that knowledge to his communist contacts. One of those who would go to that camp was Bon. Thanh wanted to protect him, and asked the General for permission to go as well. The permission was granted at a price: Sonny, a left-wing Vietnamese journalist who had also been a college friend in America with Thanh, had found out about the training and had published a piece about it. The General now hinted to Thanh that something should be done about Sonny if Thanh were to be allowed to go. Encouraged by Bon, Thanh kills Sonny – another ghost to haunt him.
Two days later, he and Bon flew to Bangkok and then proceeded to the camp on the border of Thailand and Laos. On their first reconnaissance patrol, they ran into an ambush. Most of the patrol were killed, but Thanh and Bon were taken prisoner.
There is a fifth of the book to come. So far the story has been easy to follow; but this last fifth is the most difficult part, and, as I said in the first paragraph of this review, I found much of it maddeningly obscure.
Thanh has to write for the Commandant of the prison a confession which is to be part of his re-education. The Commandant is never satisfied with his account: though Thanh is a communist, the confession is too western, with no appreciation of the writings of Ho Chi Minh and Mao Tse Tung. What he had done while working with the General also counted against him.
The remote Commissar in charge of the prison camp is particularly interested in Thanh’s case: we will find out why. There are horrible scenes of mental and gruesome memories of physical torture, interspersed with long, hard-to-believe reflections; and I repeat that I found these scenes in any case hard to make sense of. Clearly the judges who awarded this book the Pulitzer Prize will not have found it so difficult or so obscure.
Parts of this book have no reason to be there. Others yes, but only stick together as a story much like you've used the wrong glue to hold your shoe together - a few steps and right back to the original problem. Much of the book is commentary on the U.S./Vietnam societal issues that, although were and are real, are expressed by the author as if they are new found revelations. Social commentary is not a good mindset for an author to be in when writing a fiction novel.
Perhaps the author BEGAN the book in 1975 and just finished in 2016 due to lack of focus on any one given story line. In all fairness this simply could be the fault of the publisher and their editors. Either way the book becomes almost unreadable by about 75% - though I got frustrated by 62% but kept going as long as I could.
The one thing I loved about the novel was the humo(u)r. The complete troll of Apocalypse Now is quite funny -especially one line that works only for those who know the movie. I had a few good laughs.
If you are looking for a brilliant story - similar in setting and historical surroundings but with laser focus and beautiful storytelling that lets you feel, hear and taste the story "The Headmaster's Wager" by Vincent Lam will not disappoint.
A bem da verdade, é um ponto de vista fraturado, cindido entre um fascínio hipnotizado com os EUA e sua lealdade à terra natal – e, realmente, haveria outra forma de narrar essa história? O romance tem um tom tragicômico em sua abordagem na incompreensão entre o ocidente e o oriente, e coloca ao centro um dilema moral: qual escolher? Ou mais do que isso, porque escolher?
Seu narrador e protagonista, que não tem nome, é um sujeito dividido entre os dois mundos. Filho ilegítimo de uma mãe vietnamita e um padre francês. Criado nos EUA, ele é capaz de falar um inglês sem qualquer sotaque – o que, por momentos, anularia suas origens – e tem uma relação de amor e ódio com o país. Ele é também um espião, um infiltrado que pode, sem nem se dar conta, estar fazendo um jogo duplo.
Sua narrativa começa nos dias finais da Guerra, quando ele se torna ajudante de um General – cujo nome próprio, como o dele, nunca é citado -, e com ele vai para os EUA, onde será um espião comunista, para investigar (e tentar impedir) uma contrarrevolução no seu país.
É nessa dubiedade que o romance, ganhador do Pulitzer de ficção em abril passado, se constrói. Entre o ser e o não ser, entre o estar aqui e querer estar lá, mas aqui está melhor do que lá, então para que ir para lá? Mas onde é o verdadeiro aqui? Nesse jogo de dubiedades – moldado num humor ácido – Nguyen constrói um retrato não apenas histórico, mas da ideologia da cultura. Os capítulos em que o protagonista trabalha como consultor de um filme sobre a Guerra do Vietnã são alguns dos melhores. Neles, se vê explicitado o movimento das engrenagens culturais capazes de sequestrar a narrativa da História.
Übrigens: Wer sich im Englisch üben will, lese die englische Version, am besten mit einem Wörterbuch daneben, denn der vietnamesische Autor verfügt über einen großen Wortschatz, darunter auch weniger Gebräuchliches, das dem illiterate american einige Rätsel auftischen dürfte. Und dann noch dieses: Das Buch ist nichts für zarte Seelen. Der Leser oder die Leserin des Buches braucht ein sicheres Fundament, andernfalls er oder sie den Glauben an das Gute im Menschen, zumindest vorübergehend, verlieren könnte.












