And somehow, yet again, I was reading a war book. This one, at least, had a semi-autobiographical element and was set in the second world war in Shanghai. It's not an angle of the war I've thought about much, but it was a seriously messed up situation, by all accounts!
This book did a couple of things I really love - it had that colonial view of the oriental that is completely unapologetic and describes, without meaning to, the prevailing attitudes of the time in a completely understated way. I find that kind of unintentional insight really interesting. Possibly for obvious reasons, but I'm fascinated by stories of being 'other' and transient and expatriate. The power dynamics of colonialism in no way reflect my own expatriate experiences, but I'm fascinated to read about them - from the Orient to the Raj, it's amazing how people can imbue themselves with such a sense of self-righteousness.
It also does that other fascinating thing of looking at how people bond and bicker in adversity. It's a fine line between safety in numbers and competition for resources, and the way this story commentates on the ebb and flow of these relationships is gripping.
I did, at some point, take the sequel out of the library, but I returned it without reading, but with a late fine... Story of my life.
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