United States
![Elaine Hsieh Chou - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B097QBNPRF.jpg)
Disorientation: A Novel
"The funniest, most poignant novel of the year." -Vogue
"Disorientation does what great comedies and satires are supposed to do: make you laugh while forcing you to ponder the uncomfortable implications of every punchline." -The Washington Post
A Taiwanese American woman's coming-of-consciousness ignites eye-opening revelations and chaos on a college campus in this outrageously hilarious and startlingly tender debut novel.
Twenty-nine-year-old PhD student Ingrid Yang is desperate to finish her dissertation on the late canonical poet Xiao-Wen Chou and never read about "Chinese-y" things again. But after years of grueling research, all she has to show for her efforts are junk food addiction and stomach pain. When she accidentally stumbles upon a curious note in the Chou archives one afternoon, she convinces herself it's her ticket out of academic hell.
But Ingrid's in much deeper than she thinks. Her clumsy exploits to unravel the note's message lead to an explosive discovery, upending not only her sheltered life within academia but her entire world beyond it. With her trusty friend Eunice Kim by her side and her rival Vivian Vo hot on her tail, together they set off a roller coaster of mishaps and misadventures, from book burnings and OTC drug hallucinations, to hot-button protests and Yellow Peril 2.0 propaganda.
In the aftermath, nothing looks the same to Ingrid-including her gentle and doting fiancé, Stephen Greene. When he embarks on a book tour with the super kawaii Japanese author he's translated, doubts and insecurities creep in for the first time… As the events Ingrid instigated keep spiraling, she'll have to confront her sticky relationship to white men and white institutions-and, most of all, herself.
For readers of Paul Beatty's The Sellout and Charles Yu's Interior Chinatown, this uproarious and bighearted satire is a blistering send-up of privilege and power in America, and a profound reckoning of individual complicity and unspoken rage. In this electrifying debut novel from a provocative new voice, Elaine Hsieh Chou asks who gets to tell our stories-and how the story changes when we finally tell it ourselves.
"Disorientation does what great comedies and satires are supposed to do: make you laugh while forcing you to ponder the uncomfortable implications of every punchline." -The Washington Post
A Taiwanese American woman's coming-of-consciousness ignites eye-opening revelations and chaos on a college campus in this outrageously hilarious and startlingly tender debut novel.
Twenty-nine-year-old PhD student Ingrid Yang is desperate to finish her dissertation on the late canonical poet Xiao-Wen Chou and never read about "Chinese-y" things again. But after years of grueling research, all she has to show for her efforts are junk food addiction and stomach pain. When she accidentally stumbles upon a curious note in the Chou archives one afternoon, she convinces herself it's her ticket out of academic hell.
But Ingrid's in much deeper than she thinks. Her clumsy exploits to unravel the note's message lead to an explosive discovery, upending not only her sheltered life within academia but her entire world beyond it. With her trusty friend Eunice Kim by her side and her rival Vivian Vo hot on her tail, together they set off a roller coaster of mishaps and misadventures, from book burnings and OTC drug hallucinations, to hot-button protests and Yellow Peril 2.0 propaganda.
In the aftermath, nothing looks the same to Ingrid-including her gentle and doting fiancé, Stephen Greene. When he embarks on a book tour with the super kawaii Japanese author he's translated, doubts and insecurities creep in for the first time… As the events Ingrid instigated keep spiraling, she'll have to confront her sticky relationship to white men and white institutions-and, most of all, herself.
For readers of Paul Beatty's The Sellout and Charles Yu's Interior Chinatown, this uproarious and bighearted satire is a blistering send-up of privilege and power in America, and a profound reckoning of individual complicity and unspoken rage. In this electrifying debut novel from a provocative new voice, Elaine Hsieh Chou asks who gets to tell our stories-and how the story changes when we finally tell it ourselves.
Editorial Reviews
Chapter 1 The Curious Note
On September ninth, Ingrid Yang could be found cramped over a desk, left foot fallen asleep, right middle finger bruised from writing. She had Xiao-Wen Chou on the mind, so much so that his allusions and alliterations seemed to spill from her every orifice: ears, mouth, nose, vagina. She was chewing at the ends of her hair, then sniffing the paintbrush-like bunches, before scratching at the papery patches of eczema on her ankles. Her eyes were pink veined and sore from having slept three hours the previous night, punctuated by unnecessary trips to the bathroom. She simply sat on the toilet with her eyes closed, nothing going out of, or into, her body.
Even on the occasions she did manage to sleep through the night, Ingrid was plagued by a constant, pinching pain in her stomach. Sometimes she imagined, hopefully, that she was developing ulcers. No one could fault her for failing her dissertation because of stomach ulcers, could they? Pneumonia, then? What about mono? But how to contract these illnesses was another question entirely. There was always the black market-or perhaps she simply had to attend an undergrad frat party.
Pulling her laptop close, she searched "how to contract mono," followed by "top ten deathly illnesses."
No, Ingrid Yang was not doing well.
She was twenty-nine years old and in mounting debt from her undergraduate degree. Four years ago, she had passed her comprehensive exams and started her dissertation. This year, the eighth and final year of her PhD, her funding would run out-an unhappy situation in any circumstance, but compounded by the fact that her student loan deferral was expiring. Somehow, in spite of all this financial doom and gloom, this was also the year she had to produce two hundred fifty pages on Xiao-Wen Chou. And not just any two hundred fifty pages-they had to be shockingly original and convincing! Enough to pass muster with her exacting advisor and an even more exacting dissertation committee. Enough to secure her the prestigious postdoc fellowship created in Xiao-Wen Chou's name.
But after hundreds of hair-pulling hours spent at the archive, all she had accomplished was fifty pages of scrambled notes on Chou's use of enjambment. Plus an addiction to antacids.
Make no mistake, it wasn't as though she hadn't tried. She had come up with ideas of her own! Chou's poetic sprawl representing the eternal inner conflict between eastern selflessness and western individuality. Assimilation into American society in Chou's poetry. The theme of familial deference in Chou's poetry. Chou's poetry and the impossibility of cultural translation. Chou's poetry and the longing for irretrievably...
On September ninth, Ingrid Yang could be found cramped over a desk, left foot fallen asleep, right middle finger bruised from writing. She had Xiao-Wen Chou on the mind, so much so that his allusions and alliterations seemed to spill from her every orifice: ears, mouth, nose, vagina. She was chewing at the ends of her hair, then sniffing the paintbrush-like bunches, before scratching at the papery patches of eczema on her ankles. Her eyes were pink veined and sore from having slept three hours the previous night, punctuated by unnecessary trips to the bathroom. She simply sat on the toilet with her eyes closed, nothing going out of, or into, her body.
Even on the occasions she did manage to sleep through the night, Ingrid was plagued by a constant, pinching pain in her stomach. Sometimes she imagined, hopefully, that she was developing ulcers. No one could fault her for failing her dissertation because of stomach ulcers, could they? Pneumonia, then? What about mono? But how to contract these illnesses was another question entirely. There was always the black market-or perhaps she simply had to attend an undergrad frat party.
Pulling her laptop close, she searched "how to contract mono," followed by "top ten deathly illnesses."
No, Ingrid Yang was not doing well.
She was twenty-nine years old and in mounting debt from her undergraduate degree. Four years ago, she had passed her comprehensive exams and started her dissertation. This year, the eighth and final year of her PhD, her funding would run out-an unhappy situation in any circumstance, but compounded by the fact that her student loan deferral was expiring. Somehow, in spite of all this financial doom and gloom, this was also the year she had to produce two hundred fifty pages on Xiao-Wen Chou. And not just any two hundred fifty pages-they had to be shockingly original and convincing! Enough to pass muster with her exacting advisor and an even more exacting dissertation committee. Enough to secure her the prestigious postdoc fellowship created in Xiao-Wen Chou's name.
But after hundreds of hair-pulling hours spent at the archive, all she had accomplished was fifty pages of scrambled notes on Chou's use of enjambment. Plus an addiction to antacids.
Make no mistake, it wasn't as though she hadn't tried. She had come up with ideas of her own! Chou's poetic sprawl representing the eternal inner conflict between eastern selflessness and western individuality. Assimilation into American society in Chou's poetry. The theme of familial deference in Chou's poetry. Chou's poetry and the impossibility of cultural translation. Chou's poetry and the longing for irretrievably...
Readers Top Reviews
Ralph LowenJonath
Perfect title! Many thought-provoking subjects with the overarching theme being racism. At first the book seems too long for the plot line, but as more subplots are introduced, we understand the need for the length.. Still, it’s a very erratic story which I couldn’t wait to finish. Thank you NetGalley for the ARC.
bitter purlJames
Maybe I just don't like satires and didn't realize it until now? Or maybe this one missed the mark? At over 400 pages this became a chore to read - there was just too much happening here. I wondered if this was more geared towards a Netflix show than the lit fic I expected. A 29 year old in academia (8 years in a PHD program!) who has never heard of any SJ discourse? This worked best for me when we got to explore why Ingrid would not identify with her East Asian heritage (could we just have more of her parents?). Otherwise there was pretty weak character development all around - why did everyone turn into a clown? . The ending is depressing, but probably because of how true to life it sadly is. I had such high hopes for this one! I will still check out the author's next writing and hope she delves deeper next time.
kathleen gbitter
Chou has combined the coming of age novel with a campus satire that will resonate with a range of readers. Ingrid Yang is 29, in the 8th year of her dissertation, and unhappy with any number of things when she discovers there's something off about her subject. She's an awfully immature for 29 but she's been in the shelter of academia for her whole life. Now she's dealing with high expectations from her family, a fiance who is fascinated with all things Asia for their being Asia (including Ingrid) and the realization that her discovery might tank the whole enterprise and bring down the hammer on her institution. Some of the characters might seem like caricatures but I suspect more than one reader will recognize someone they know. Thanks to Netgalley for the ARC. It does sag a bit in spots but in the end, it's a good addition to the genre.
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter 1 The Curious Note
On September ninth, Ingrid Yang could be found cramped over a desk, left foot fallen asleep, right middle finger bruised from writing. She had Xiao-Wen Chou on the mind, so much so that his allusions and alliterations seemed to spill from her every orifice: ears, mouth, nose, vagina. She was chewing at the ends of her hair, then sniffing the paintbrush-like bunches, before scratching at the papery patches of eczema on her ankles. Her eyes were pink veined and sore from having slept three hours the previous night, punctuated by unnecessary trips to the bathroom. She simply sat on the toilet with her eyes closed, nothing going out of, or into, her body.
Even on the occasions she did manage to sleep through the night, Ingrid was plagued by a constant, pinching pain in her stomach. Sometimes she imagined, hopefully, that she was developing ulcers. No one could fault her for failing her dissertation because of stomach ulcers, could they? Pneumonia, then? What about mono? But how to contract these illnesses was another question entirely. There was always the black market-or perhaps she simply had to attend an undergrad frat party.
Pulling her laptop close, she searched "how to contract mono," followed by "top ten deathly illnesses."
No, Ingrid Yang was not doing well.
She was twenty-nine years old and in mounting debt from her undergraduate degree. Four years ago, she had passed her comprehensive exams and started her dissertation. This year, the eighth and final year of her PhD, her funding would run out-an unhappy situation in any circumstance, but compounded by the fact that her student loan deferral was expiring. Somehow, in spite of all this financial doom and gloom, this was also the year she had to produce two hundred fifty pages on Xiao-Wen Chou. And not just any two hundred fifty pages-they had to be shockingly original and convincing! Enough to pass muster with her exacting advisor and an even more exacting dissertation committee. Enough to secure her the prestigious postdoc fellowship created in Xiao-Wen Chou's name.
But after hundreds of hair-pulling hours spent at the archive, all she had accomplished was fifty pages of scrambled notes on Chou's use of enjambment. Plus an addiction to antacids.
Make no mistake, it wasn't as though she hadn't tried. She had come up with ideas of her own! Chou's poetic sprawl representing the eternal inner conflict between eastern selflessness and western individuality. Assimilation into American society in Chou's poetry. The theme of familial deference in Chou's poetry. Chou's poetry and the impossibility of cultural translation. Chou's poetry and the longing for irretrievably lost motherland and mother tongue, etc.
The problem was that some other scholar had, of course, already written about it. No other Chinese American poet had been so widely read in America, had been so consistently analyzed and reprinted year after year. The so-called Chinese Robert Frost was taught to students in high schools and colleges all across the country (and occasionally in advanced middle school classes). In every bookstore and library, a good twelve inches of space were devoted to his prolific work. Even those who wanted nothing to do with literature, who could not tell you Chou's name much less how to spell it, had nonetheless come into contact with his poems. In restaurants, dentist offices and middle-class homes, his quotations adorned boxes of tea, wall decorations and watercolor calendars. Xiao-Wen Chou was loved and respected-more so after he passed away from pancreatic cancer seven years ago.
What could Ingrid possibly offer on the late canonical poet no one else had? She had memorized Chou's poems backwards and forwards, riffled through innumerable archive boxes, worn out her copy of his biography, read incomprehensible secondary sources, read them a third time. She had even attended a pricey international conference in the hopes of gently plagiarizing some Argentinian or Swedish scholar's paper. When she was still a TA, she had surreptitiously assigned her undergrads essay prompts that fed directly into her own research. She had let her other interests fall to the wayside, not to mention healthy eating and exercise. She had postponed planning her wedding for another year. From the moment she woke up to the moment she tried to sleep, Chouian sonnets, villanelles, odes and elegies consumed her. What more could she possibly do? Hire a ghostwriter?
Alas, Ingrid was approaching the problem as though it held a logical solution. There was another reason behind her dissertation woes: she had never ...
On September ninth, Ingrid Yang could be found cramped over a desk, left foot fallen asleep, right middle finger bruised from writing. She had Xiao-Wen Chou on the mind, so much so that his allusions and alliterations seemed to spill from her every orifice: ears, mouth, nose, vagina. She was chewing at the ends of her hair, then sniffing the paintbrush-like bunches, before scratching at the papery patches of eczema on her ankles. Her eyes were pink veined and sore from having slept three hours the previous night, punctuated by unnecessary trips to the bathroom. She simply sat on the toilet with her eyes closed, nothing going out of, or into, her body.
Even on the occasions she did manage to sleep through the night, Ingrid was plagued by a constant, pinching pain in her stomach. Sometimes she imagined, hopefully, that she was developing ulcers. No one could fault her for failing her dissertation because of stomach ulcers, could they? Pneumonia, then? What about mono? But how to contract these illnesses was another question entirely. There was always the black market-or perhaps she simply had to attend an undergrad frat party.
Pulling her laptop close, she searched "how to contract mono," followed by "top ten deathly illnesses."
No, Ingrid Yang was not doing well.
She was twenty-nine years old and in mounting debt from her undergraduate degree. Four years ago, she had passed her comprehensive exams and started her dissertation. This year, the eighth and final year of her PhD, her funding would run out-an unhappy situation in any circumstance, but compounded by the fact that her student loan deferral was expiring. Somehow, in spite of all this financial doom and gloom, this was also the year she had to produce two hundred fifty pages on Xiao-Wen Chou. And not just any two hundred fifty pages-they had to be shockingly original and convincing! Enough to pass muster with her exacting advisor and an even more exacting dissertation committee. Enough to secure her the prestigious postdoc fellowship created in Xiao-Wen Chou's name.
But after hundreds of hair-pulling hours spent at the archive, all she had accomplished was fifty pages of scrambled notes on Chou's use of enjambment. Plus an addiction to antacids.
Make no mistake, it wasn't as though she hadn't tried. She had come up with ideas of her own! Chou's poetic sprawl representing the eternal inner conflict between eastern selflessness and western individuality. Assimilation into American society in Chou's poetry. The theme of familial deference in Chou's poetry. Chou's poetry and the impossibility of cultural translation. Chou's poetry and the longing for irretrievably lost motherland and mother tongue, etc.
The problem was that some other scholar had, of course, already written about it. No other Chinese American poet had been so widely read in America, had been so consistently analyzed and reprinted year after year. The so-called Chinese Robert Frost was taught to students in high schools and colleges all across the country (and occasionally in advanced middle school classes). In every bookstore and library, a good twelve inches of space were devoted to his prolific work. Even those who wanted nothing to do with literature, who could not tell you Chou's name much less how to spell it, had nonetheless come into contact with his poems. In restaurants, dentist offices and middle-class homes, his quotations adorned boxes of tea, wall decorations and watercolor calendars. Xiao-Wen Chou was loved and respected-more so after he passed away from pancreatic cancer seven years ago.
What could Ingrid possibly offer on the late canonical poet no one else had? She had memorized Chou's poems backwards and forwards, riffled through innumerable archive boxes, worn out her copy of his biography, read incomprehensible secondary sources, read them a third time. She had even attended a pricey international conference in the hopes of gently plagiarizing some Argentinian or Swedish scholar's paper. When she was still a TA, she had surreptitiously assigned her undergrads essay prompts that fed directly into her own research. She had let her other interests fall to the wayside, not to mention healthy eating and exercise. She had postponed planning her wedding for another year. From the moment she woke up to the moment she tried to sleep, Chouian sonnets, villanelles, odes and elegies consumed her. What more could she possibly do? Hire a ghostwriter?
Alas, Ingrid was approaching the problem as though it held a logical solution. There was another reason behind her dissertation woes: she had never ...
