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May. 22nd, 2026 05:26 pmShould I go to the trouble of ILLing it?
Should I go to the trouble of ILLing it?
I finished reading this book a few weeks ago, and due to my goldfish memory, I'm already forgetting details. I figured I should type out my thoughts before even more of them escape me.
When I'm Gone, Look for Me in the East is told through the eyes of Chuluun, a novice monk from Mongolia who has been tasked with locating a tulku. To complete this mission, he must reunite with his estranged twin brother, Mun, who was himself identified as a tulku at the age of eight...and who later renounced Buddhism and left the monastery to forge his own life in the city. Mun is reluctant to subject another child to the same fate he feels was forced upon him, Chuluun is stung by the wedge Mun drove between them by leaving, and matters are only made more complicated by the fact that Mun and Chuluun can hear each other's thoughts.
My overall impression is that it had the makings of a book I could have really loved, but unfortunately, it kept getting in its own way.
To be clear, there were a lot of things I liked. Chuluun is an intriguing and sympathetic narrator, for one. He is a novice who will soon undergo the rites to become a full monk, and he strives to embody Buddhist principles even as he fears that he is insufficient in his learning. Because time is an illusion and, as Chuluun tells us repeatedly, there is only the here and now, the entire novel is narrated in present tense, by which I mean that present is nearly the only tense that is ever used. (Having returned the book to the library, I don't have an illustrative quote on hand, but here's one from another review I found online: "To my eye Little Bat looks even more tranquil now than he does an hour ago...") Between this and We Ride Upon Sticks, it seems Barry is an author who enjoys experimenting with point of view, and I enjoyed the fruits of her experimentation in both books. Throughout, Chuluun also struggles with the inherent paradox of desiring to become someone who is free of desire. A juicy theme!
The sibling relationship was also very compelling to me. There are years of resentment and pain and love piled up between Chuluun and Mun. While they never had an easy or straightforward relationship, they were set firmly on different paths from age eight, when Mun was identified as the fifth reincarnation of a lama and they were taken to live in a monastery. Mun became the Redeemer Who Sounds the Conch in the Darkness, Chuluun the Servant of the Redeemer Who Sounds the Conch in the Darkness. Where Chuluun experienced the austerity of monastic life as a sort of paring down to his essence, Mun experienced it as a prison that was trying to rob him of who he was. Mun left, and Chuluun stayed. Barry gives equal weight to both of their perspectives, allows them to be right and wrong in equal measure. Even with the mind-link and the larger-than-life destiny that was assigned to one of them, they feel convincingly like siblings who can't figure out how to cross the chasm between them. I always want to read about that sort of thing.
The trouble is that for all that I found the themes, characters, and dynamics compelling, the book was continually slamming pause on all of that to deliver lectures about Mongolian history and culture. It was well meant, certainly, but disastrously clunky. Barry—who, I should note here for context, is Vietnamese American, not Mongolian herself—wanted to make incredibly, perfectly, excruciatingly certain that you knew she did her research, even though this fact is presumably also demonstrated by the bibliography she included at the end of the novel. And I have no problem with that on the face of it, I know sweet fuck all about Mongolian history and culture and am delighted to be educated, but my god, Chuluun was not the right narrator to be turning to the camera and giving me history lessons every other page. I do have an illustrative quote for this, because while I was reading I posted a passage on mastodon out of sheer exasperation: ( cut for length of passage )
Chuluun is Mongolian, he has always lived in Mongolia, and he's been living as a monk for years. Why would he be consciously thinking of the simple facts of his life in this way? This is also not important context for anything that happens, so there is truly no reason for us to have been transported mid-scene into a textbook. And it isn't just this one scene—this happens roughly once every two pages. At one point Chuluun starts telling the reader that Monoglian is one of the world's oldest surviving languages, and there is no reason for him to be thinking about this, because all that's happening is that he's having a conversation with his brother in the language they both speak. It took me a million years to get through this relatively short book because momentum was never allowed to build. I get that Barry wanted her English-speaking audience to understand what she was talking about, but this is absurd!
Throughout the entire book, I found myself wishing Barry had committed to telling one or the other: either a story in which an omnisicient third-person narrator delivers Victor Hugo-esque digressions meant for the audience's education, or a story with a tight first-person narrator who leaves the audience to wonder about some things or look them up later. Instead she tried to have the best of both worlds, and it didn't work. It's a shame, because I think I could have really loved either of those other books.