Em by Kim Thúy (2020): A Review

Title: Em

Author: Kim Thúy

Translator: Sheila Fischman

Publication Year: 2020 published; 2021 translated

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Pages: 160

Source: audiobook @storytel.tr

Genre: literary fiction, historical fiction, trauma fiction, war fiction

Awards: Scotiabank Giller Prize Nominee (2021), Dublin Literary Award Nominee for Shortlist (2023)

Em by Kim Thúy is the story of lost lives, lands, chances, and even plants, all marked and disfigured by the atrocities of the Vietnam War. The novel moves through the lives of those on the front lines — mostly victims and a few perpetrators — without ever whitewashing what was done or what was endured. Although the story moves among many different characters, they are all woven together through family ties, adoption, and destiny. It also traces those who leave their more comfortable lives behind to cross the world in the hope of making a difference. Every fragment is rooted in historical fact; each chapter feels like a distilled moment, a face, an event pulled directly from history.

It takes a rare kind of mastery to write about such a long and devastating history with this level of emotional weight and restraint. Thúy proves, once again, that you do not need thousands of pages to convey horror, grief, and love; a few lines can be enough to break a reader’s heart. That ability places her firmly in the company of true masters.

Formally, the book is composed of brief, almost fragmentary chapters. Thúy connects these pieces through titles, recurring names, and the subtle movement from one character to their descendants, or to those whose lives intersect with theirs. The structure becomes a chain of memory: one person leading to another, one act of violence echoing into the next life.

The book is undeniably heavy, yet the short chapters and their abrupt endings create just enough space to breathe. Without those pauses, it might be impossible to keep reading such sustained brutality and loss. That distance does not numb the reader; instead, it allows us to remain present as witnesses to events that must not be forgotten.

By the end, the novel forces you to question humanity itself, even as it leaves a faint, fragile thread of hope — embodied in those who sacrifice, who try to help, who attempt in some small way to pay for the sins of others. At the same time, Em insists that these horrors are not safely sealed in the past. They were lived and suffered through, and their consequences continue to shape the lives of people who are still living and still suffering today. Most importantly, there is no end to human atrocity, as is painfully evident in the dark world we are living in now.

Reading Em also reminded me of the long line of writers who have grappled with the Vietnam War and its echoes — from Tim O’Brien and Kristin Hannah to, perhaps more unexpectedly, Joseph Conrad, whose shadows of empire and moral darkness feel eerily close to the world Thúy evokes.