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A review by kateybellew
One Hundred Days by Alice Pung
challenging
dark
emotional
tense
medium-paced
4.0
The story of a 16 year old Karuna who falls pregnant in 1980s Melbourne. Her Chinese-Filipino mother is overprotective to the point of abuse, while her white Australian father is passive and largely absent, reneging his responsibilities. Alice Pung captured so well the mind and feelings of teenage Karuna and the claustrophobic setting she was forced to live in, all while she tried to establish (and hold onto) a sense of self under the oppressive thumb of her judgmental mother. It also demonstrates some struggles that seem to be common in migrant and first-generation families finding their place between cultural heritage and assimilation. Overall, a confronting and uncomfortable book executed really well. I can’t wait to read more from Alice.
"There’s not much for me to do now but remember stuff from my past. ‘Re-member-ing’ sounds like putting arms and legs back together. It makes me think of that bad egg Humpty Dumpty, how no one could make him whole again after he shattered. I know I have to break open for you to come out, but I don’t want to think about that.” p. 155
“The worse thing is being forced to lie in bed like a sick person when I am so full of this feral vitality. No wonder all those ladies in Victorian-era novels were depressed and moribund. They couldn’t walk around, work, play or anything. At least they could read, I thought resentfully. Mary Shelley and those sickly Brontë sisters even wrote entire books. Then I realise that those women all had dead mothers.” p. 178
"There’s not much for me to do now but remember stuff from my past. ‘Re-member-ing’ sounds like putting arms and legs back together. It makes me think of that bad egg Humpty Dumpty, how no one could make him whole again after he shattered. I know I have to break open for you to come out, but I don’t want to think about that.” p. 155
“The worse thing is being forced to lie in bed like a sick person when I am so full of this feral vitality. No wonder all those ladies in Victorian-era novels were depressed and moribund. They couldn’t walk around, work, play or anything. At least they could read, I thought resentfully. Mary Shelley and those sickly Brontë sisters even wrote entire books. Then I realise that those women all had dead mothers.” p. 178
Content Warnings
Moderate: Child abuse and Confinement