A Journey Through Light and Shadow: My Thoughts on Flashlight by Susan Choi
When I first picked up Flashlight by Susan Choi, I was drawn in by the promise of a sprawling family saga set against the backdrop of post-World War II Japan. As someone who often revels in the complexities of familial relationships and the ways history weaves into personal narratives, I was eager to explore the intricate dynamics this novel promised. However, as I delved into the pages, I found myself wrestling with mixed emotions about the book’s execution.
At its core, Flashlight explores multifaceted themes of culture, identity, and the enduring repercussions of history. We meet Louisa, a half-American, half-Korean girl grappling with her place in a world that often sees her as an outsider. Her journey takes her from the beaches of Japan—where her father mysteriously disappears—to the chaotic landscapes of London and Paris. Throughout, Choi paints a significant yet uneven emotional landscape, offering glimmers of insight amid prolonged periods of introspection and exposition.
The storytelling is a mix of immersive moments and drawn-out explanations, which at times left me feeling disconnected. For instance, the initial scene with the girl stealing a flashlight had an intriguing premise but felt disjointed when the narrative segued into thicker descriptions of family dynamics and cultural contexts. Louisa’s experience of cultural shock, described so vividly, often felt stuck between profound insight and dense explicatory passages. “You can love someone and still not be nice to them,” a line that resonated deeply, captured the essence of familial tensions yet was sometimes overshadowed by the narrative’s pacing.
I found myself torn between moments of brilliance—like the clinical dissection of an unhappy marriage or the visceral portrayal of a fraught mother-daughter relationship—and the feeling of being told how to perceive events rather than experiencing them firsthand. Choi has a knack for creating quirky characters, yet I felt they lacked depth compared to the richly drawn figures in novels like Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow or A Little Life. The boy Roman, while eccentric, felt more like a caricature, a missed opportunity for deeper exploration, reminiscent of characters drawn by Donna Tartt but lacking the same buildup or nuance.
Despite its uneven pacing, there were passages that struck a chord with me—the haunting imagery of poverty in Japan juxtaposed with Louisa’s isolated experiences added a poignant layer to the narrative. Scenes of strawberry picking echoed cinematic beauty while the exploration of Louisa’s awkwardness in social settings resonated with my own discomforts at times, anchoring her character in reality despite my struggles to empathize with her.
As the novel approached its conclusion, I grappled with a sense of the unrealized potential, both in Louisa’s journey and Choi’s narrative. The stunning ending felt beautiful, yet I expected to be emotionally shaken, left instead with a feeling of unresolved longing. This mirrors the broader themes in Flashlight—the waste of potential, the often-unfulfilled promise of familial bonds, and the lingering effects of historical trauma.
Flashlight is not a light read, but for those who appreciate messy, intricate family dynamics and historical contexts, it’s worth the journey. It challenges the reader to reflect on their own familial ties and how histories—personal and political—intertwine. While it may not resonate with everyone, it certainly provided me with a thought-provoking reading experience that sparked deep introspection about love, loss, and the complexities of belonging. If you enjoy multilayered narratives that ask more questions than they answer, this book might just shine its light on your own reflections.