Genre Fiction
![Celeste Ng - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B00G3OK1NI.jpg)
Our Missing Hearts: A Novel
An instant New York Times bestseller • A New York Times Notable Book of 2022 • Named a Best Book of 2022 by People, TIME Magazine, The Washington Post, USA Today, NPR, Los Angeles Times, and Oprah Daily, and more • A Reese's Book Club Pick
From the #1 bestselling author of Little Fires Everywhere, comes the inspiring new novel about a mother's unshakeable love.
"It's impossible not to be moved." -Stephen King, The New York Times Book Review
"Riveting, tender, and timely." -People, Book of the Week
"Thought-provoking, heart-wrenching . . . I was so invested in the future of this mother and son, and I can't wait to hear what you think of this deeply suspenseful story!" -Reese Witherspoon (Reese's Book Club Pick)
Twelve-year-old Bird Gardner lives a quiet existence with his loving father, a former linguist who now shelves books in a university library. His mother Margaret, a Chinese American poet, left without a trace when he was nine years old. He doesn't know what happened to her-only that her books have been banned-and he resents that she cared more about her work than about him.
Then one day, Bird receives a mysterious letter containing only a cryptic drawing, and soon he is pulled into a quest to find her. His journey will take him back to the many folktales she poured into his head as a child, through the ranks of an underground network of heroic librarians, and finally to New York City, where he will finally learn the truth about what happened to his mother, and what the future holds for them both.
Our Missing Hearts is an old story made new, of the ways supposedly civilized communities can ignore the most searing injustice. It's about the lessons and legacies we pass on to our children, and the power of art to create change.
From the #1 bestselling author of Little Fires Everywhere, comes the inspiring new novel about a mother's unshakeable love.
"It's impossible not to be moved." -Stephen King, The New York Times Book Review
"Riveting, tender, and timely." -People, Book of the Week
"Thought-provoking, heart-wrenching . . . I was so invested in the future of this mother and son, and I can't wait to hear what you think of this deeply suspenseful story!" -Reese Witherspoon (Reese's Book Club Pick)
Twelve-year-old Bird Gardner lives a quiet existence with his loving father, a former linguist who now shelves books in a university library. His mother Margaret, a Chinese American poet, left without a trace when he was nine years old. He doesn't know what happened to her-only that her books have been banned-and he resents that she cared more about her work than about him.
Then one day, Bird receives a mysterious letter containing only a cryptic drawing, and soon he is pulled into a quest to find her. His journey will take him back to the many folktales she poured into his head as a child, through the ranks of an underground network of heroic librarians, and finally to New York City, where he will finally learn the truth about what happened to his mother, and what the future holds for them both.
Our Missing Hearts is an old story made new, of the ways supposedly civilized communities can ignore the most searing injustice. It's about the lessons and legacies we pass on to our children, and the power of art to create change.
Editorial Reviews
"Thought-provoking, heart-wrenching . . . It follows the story of a young boy named Bird on the search for his mother Margaret, a poet whose work was deemed unpatriotic. I was so invested in the future of this mother and son, and I can't wait to hear what you think of this deeply suspenseful story!" -Reese Witherspoon (Reese's Book Club October '22 Pick)
"Firmly written and well-executed . . . a meditation on the sometimes accidental power of words . . . I won't give away the splendid conclusion of Ng's book; suffice it to say . . . It's impossible not to be moved by Margaret Miu's courage, or to applaud her craftiness . . . Ng succeeds . . . partly because her outrage is contained and focused, and mostly because she is often captivated by the very words she is using . . . Bird is a brave and believable character, who gives us a relatable portal into a world that seems more like our own every day." -Stephen King, The New York Times Book Review
"In this riveting, tender and timely book, one mother speaks ‘into the darkness' with love. Celeste Ng pleads: Listen." -People, Book of the Week
"Our Missing Hearts reflects our headlines back to us, but it also powerfully and persuasively offers hope for changing those headlines. In a final moving turn, the novel dramatizes how bearing witness through art and simply speaking up can melt indifference. That sounds sentimental, I know, but Ng's own masterful telling of this tale of governmental cruelty and the shadow armies of ordinary citizens who both facilitate and resist is its own best testimony to the unpredictable possibilities of storytelling." -Maureen Corrigan, NPR's Fresh Air
"Our Missing Hearts is at its core a parable about the wages of fear, how it can lead to bigotry, racism and institutionalized hatred . . . elevated, mythic . . . depicting the workings of control and domination throughout a culture and a nation . . . The notion of the accidental warrior is one of the many generous and compassionate aspects of Ng's story-the idea that there is something brave in everyone-if only it can be reached." -The Washington Post
"Shot through with vivid color and rising ...
"Firmly written and well-executed . . . a meditation on the sometimes accidental power of words . . . I won't give away the splendid conclusion of Ng's book; suffice it to say . . . It's impossible not to be moved by Margaret Miu's courage, or to applaud her craftiness . . . Ng succeeds . . . partly because her outrage is contained and focused, and mostly because she is often captivated by the very words she is using . . . Bird is a brave and believable character, who gives us a relatable portal into a world that seems more like our own every day." -Stephen King, The New York Times Book Review
"In this riveting, tender and timely book, one mother speaks ‘into the darkness' with love. Celeste Ng pleads: Listen." -People, Book of the Week
"Our Missing Hearts reflects our headlines back to us, but it also powerfully and persuasively offers hope for changing those headlines. In a final moving turn, the novel dramatizes how bearing witness through art and simply speaking up can melt indifference. That sounds sentimental, I know, but Ng's own masterful telling of this tale of governmental cruelty and the shadow armies of ordinary citizens who both facilitate and resist is its own best testimony to the unpredictable possibilities of storytelling." -Maureen Corrigan, NPR's Fresh Air
"Our Missing Hearts is at its core a parable about the wages of fear, how it can lead to bigotry, racism and institutionalized hatred . . . elevated, mythic . . . depicting the workings of control and domination throughout a culture and a nation . . . The notion of the accidental warrior is one of the many generous and compassionate aspects of Ng's story-the idea that there is something brave in everyone-if only it can be reached." -The Washington Post
"Shot through with vivid color and rising ...
Readers Top Reviews
Miss SoCalChristi
This is a gripping dystopian story. Very imaginative yet grounded in actual events that have happened, like Atwood has told us that "A Handmaid's Tale" is. It's not a light read. Although it's very engaging and approachable, reading it is sometimes an upsetting experience. I didn't get a sense of uplift, but the writing and pacing are top notch.
Laurel-Rain SnowM
Twelve-year-old Bird Gardner lives a quiet existence with his loving but broken father, a former linguist who now shelves books in a university library. Bird knows to not ask too many questions, stand out too much, or stray too far. For a decade, their lives have been governed by laws written to preserve “American culture” in the wake of years of economic instability and violence. To keep the peace and restore prosperity, the authorities are now allowed to relocate children of dissidents, especially those of Asian origin, and libraries have been forced to remove books seen as unpatriotic—including the work of Bird’s mother, Margaret, a Chinese American poet who left the family when he was nine years old. Bird has grown up disavowing his mother and her poems; he doesn’t know her work or what happened to her, and he knows he shouldn’t wonder. But when he receives a mysterious letter containing only a cryptic drawing, he is pulled into a quest to find her. His journey will take him back to the many folktales she poured into his head as a child, through the ranks of an underground network of librarians, into the lives of the children who have been taken, and finally to New York City, where a new act of defiance may be the beginning of much-needed change. Our Missing Hearts is an old story made new, of the ways supposedly civilized communities can ignore the most searing injustice. It’s a story about the power—and limitations—of art to create change, the lessons and legacies we pass on to our children, and how any of us can survive a broken world with our hearts intact. My Thoughts: There is something hollow and fearful about Our Missing Hearts as we begin the story of what life was like during the times after the “Crisis.” A time after a stringent law is passed (PACT) that focuses on people supposedly “Anti-American,” but who are mostly Asian. People whose ideas don’t jive with those who are more “in line” with American culture. Primarily we learn more about a family with a child named Bird, a mother who writes poetry but who incidentally is Asian, and a father who works in a library. What happens to this family hurts my heart, and I am feeling the angst of what can happen to families and people because of a law. An unjust law, in my opinion. Fearful of what might lie ahead for any of us kept me reading about these characters and how their lives were torn apart. And how dismantled shelves were the reminders of the books that some considered anti-American. My heart went out to what had become of these characters and what might become of any of us. 4.5 stars. ***
JDA007Laurel-Rain
I love Celeste Ng's writing. That said, I didn't find this story as engaging as her others, though I loved the character (& guts!) of the young boy and his friend. I had a lot of questions about the adult characters, and ultimately felt most of them weren't answered. Particularly about the father. Overall a good read.
Kindle JDA007Lau
Celeste Ng brings her extraordinary writing to bear in a cautionary story for our time. And as much as we might like to view our country's history through a different lens, the evil separation of families at our southern border is evidence that if we do not learn and acknowledge the past, it will be repeated. And that achieving "community" doesn't happen with a passive acceptance of immorality. As Faulkner pointed out, the past is never dead. It's not even the past. What a haunting tale of dystopia fueled by xenophobia and upheld by an authoritarian use of patriotism to suppress and silence.
book loverKindle
Reminiscent of Orwell's 1984 the novel depicts government overreach leading to a totalitarian-group think society where people are jailed and children removed from their parents. I liked that the author made the division one that was neither Right not Left as they exist today, the focus was on the impact of censorship and silencing dissent on individuals and society. I liked the first part (the boy Bird's perspective) more than the section "told by" the mother, Margaret. Yes, it's "beautifully written" but the beauty and lyricism stood out above the story. And I didn't understand why, when her poem was first used by "dissidents" she didn't speak out and say I'm not part of this movement (which she wasn't at the time."
Short Excerpt Teaser
The letter arrives on a Friday. Slit and resealed with a sticker, of course, as all their letters are: Inspected for your safety-PACT. It had caused confusion at the post office, the clerk unfolding the paper inside, studying it, passing it up to his supervisor, then the boss. But eventually it had been deemed harmless and sent on its way. No return address, only a New York, NY postmark, six days old. On the outside, his name-Bird-and because of this he knows it is from his mother.
He has not been Bird for a long time.
We named you Noah after your father's father, his mother told him once. Bird was all your own doing.
The word that, when he said it, felt like him. Something that did not belong on earth, a small quick thing. An inquisitive chirp, a self that curled up at the edges.
The school hadn't liked it. Bird is not a name, they'd said, his name is Noah. His kindergarten teacher, fuming: He won't answer when I call him. He only answers to Bird.
Because his name is Bird, his mother said. He answers to Bird, so I suggest you call him that, birth certificate be damned. She'd taken a Sharpie to every handout that came home, crossing off Noah, writing Bird on the dotted line instead.
That was his mother: formidable and ferocious when her child was in need.
In the end the school conceded, though after that the teacher had written Bird in quotation marks, like a gangster's nickname. Dear "Bird," please remember to have your mother sign your permission slip. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Gardner, "Bird" is respectful and studious but needs to participate more fully in class. It wasn't until he was nine, after his mother left, that he became Noah.
His father says it's for the best, and won't let anyone call him Bird anymore.
If anyone calls you that, he says, you correct them. You say: Sorry, no, that's not my name.
It was one of the many changes that took place after his mother left. A new apartment, a new school, a new job for his father. An entirely new life. As if his father had wanted to transform them completely, so that if his mother ever came back, she wouldn't even know how to find them.
He'd passed his old kindergarten teacher on the street last year, on his way home. Well, hello, Noah, she said, how are you this morning? and he could not tell whether it was smugness or pity in her voice.
He is twelve now; he has been Noah for three years, but Noah still feels like one of those Halloween masks, something rubbery and awkward he doesn't quite know how to wear.
So now, out of the blue: a letter from his mother. It looks like her handwriting-and no one else would call him that. Bird. After all these years he forgets her voice sometimes; when he tries to summon it, it slips away like a shadow dissolving in the dark.
He opens the envelope with trembling hands. Three years without a single word, but finally he'll understand. Why she left. Where she's been.
But inside: nothing but a drawing. A whole sheet of paper, covered edge to edge in drawings no bigger than a dime: cats. Big cats, little cats, striped and calico and tuxedo, sitting pert, licking their paws, lolling in puddles of sunlight. Doodles really, like the ones his mother drew on his lunch bags many years ago, like the ones he sometimes draws in his class notebooks today. Barely more than a few curved lines, but recognizable. Alive. That's all-no message, no words even, just cat after cat in ballpoint squiggle. Something about it tugs at the back of his mind, but he can't quite hook it.
He turns the paper over, looking for clues, but the back of the page is blank.
Do you remember anything about your mother, Sadie had asked him once. They were on the playground, atop the climbing structure, the slide yawning down before them. Fifth grade, the last year with recess. Everything too small for them by then, meant for little children. Across the blacktop they watched their classmates hunting each other out: ready or not, here I come.
The truth was that he did, but he didn't feel like sharing, even with Sadie. Their motherlessness bound them together, but it was different, what had happened to them. What had happened with their mothers.
Not much, he'd said, do you remember much about yours?
Sadie grabbed the bar over the slide and hoisted ...
He has not been Bird for a long time.
We named you Noah after your father's father, his mother told him once. Bird was all your own doing.
The word that, when he said it, felt like him. Something that did not belong on earth, a small quick thing. An inquisitive chirp, a self that curled up at the edges.
The school hadn't liked it. Bird is not a name, they'd said, his name is Noah. His kindergarten teacher, fuming: He won't answer when I call him. He only answers to Bird.
Because his name is Bird, his mother said. He answers to Bird, so I suggest you call him that, birth certificate be damned. She'd taken a Sharpie to every handout that came home, crossing off Noah, writing Bird on the dotted line instead.
That was his mother: formidable and ferocious when her child was in need.
In the end the school conceded, though after that the teacher had written Bird in quotation marks, like a gangster's nickname. Dear "Bird," please remember to have your mother sign your permission slip. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Gardner, "Bird" is respectful and studious but needs to participate more fully in class. It wasn't until he was nine, after his mother left, that he became Noah.
His father says it's for the best, and won't let anyone call him Bird anymore.
If anyone calls you that, he says, you correct them. You say: Sorry, no, that's not my name.
It was one of the many changes that took place after his mother left. A new apartment, a new school, a new job for his father. An entirely new life. As if his father had wanted to transform them completely, so that if his mother ever came back, she wouldn't even know how to find them.
He'd passed his old kindergarten teacher on the street last year, on his way home. Well, hello, Noah, she said, how are you this morning? and he could not tell whether it was smugness or pity in her voice.
He is twelve now; he has been Noah for three years, but Noah still feels like one of those Halloween masks, something rubbery and awkward he doesn't quite know how to wear.
So now, out of the blue: a letter from his mother. It looks like her handwriting-and no one else would call him that. Bird. After all these years he forgets her voice sometimes; when he tries to summon it, it slips away like a shadow dissolving in the dark.
He opens the envelope with trembling hands. Three years without a single word, but finally he'll understand. Why she left. Where she's been.
But inside: nothing but a drawing. A whole sheet of paper, covered edge to edge in drawings no bigger than a dime: cats. Big cats, little cats, striped and calico and tuxedo, sitting pert, licking their paws, lolling in puddles of sunlight. Doodles really, like the ones his mother drew on his lunch bags many years ago, like the ones he sometimes draws in his class notebooks today. Barely more than a few curved lines, but recognizable. Alive. That's all-no message, no words even, just cat after cat in ballpoint squiggle. Something about it tugs at the back of his mind, but he can't quite hook it.
He turns the paper over, looking for clues, but the back of the page is blank.
Do you remember anything about your mother, Sadie had asked him once. They were on the playground, atop the climbing structure, the slide yawning down before them. Fifth grade, the last year with recess. Everything too small for them by then, meant for little children. Across the blacktop they watched their classmates hunting each other out: ready or not, here I come.
The truth was that he did, but he didn't feel like sharing, even with Sadie. Their motherlessness bound them together, but it was different, what had happened to them. What had happened with their mothers.
Not much, he'd said, do you remember much about yours?
Sadie grabbed the bar over the slide and hoisted ...
