I fully expected to love this book, especially with its clear, spare prose. But I confess I put it down unfulfilled. The book was Pulitzer-Prize-Winning-ly beautiful: well-constructed, stunning, epic. But the characters themselves? Even to the last page, I expected (wanted?) Wang Lung to realize how valuable O-Lan had been, how much provident, practical beauty she possessed, more than any other character in the book. But as Wang Lung took his third lover, it occurred to me he never would.
After that I cared little for the protagonist. Weakness is great fuel for great novels, but unacknowledged weakness--accepted as if it weren't weakness at all--is a swampy disappointment. And I cared little for the winy, pouty children and their petty expenses. I had cheered for their industry and robust work, then anguished for their starving, but I cared little for them when they fell idle, ready for the cycle of ruin that comes "when the rich are too rich."
The most beautiful parts of the novel, to me, were always in the descriptions of O-Lan and the times when Wang Lung worked in union with her and the Earth. When they had little but had more. The most poignant, stinging parts of the book were also centered in O-Lan. (Who can forgive Wang Lung for the pearls?) She was the part of the book that will stay with me.
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