Book Review: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel

By Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows Potato Peel Pie Society

Reviewed by Kristy Dolson

When I began writing this article, a mere three days before the deadline, the world was still deep into its COVID-19 lockdown. South Korea’s government was still encouraging citizens to social distance and stay home despite the long weekend created by Buddha’s Birthday and Children’s Day. I myself had planned a trip to Vancouver and was working through a mild depression brought on by the cancellation and subsequent feelings of isolation and loneliness.

But I had to push those feelings aside and face the reality: I could not get on a plane to Vancouver to meet my best friend. But I could still text and video call with my loved ones. I could still put my energy into passion projects. I could still write and read and declutter my apartment. I could reflect on the past month of turbulence and make a plan for how the next month was going to be better. It is in that spirit that I bring you a review for The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows.

In this book I found solace. It is a celebration of the written word and our desire for stories and art to lift us up out of the chaos and uncertainty of war and what comes after. Mainly, it is a book about individuals in a community coming together to survive and renew themselves during a time of crisis. Guernsey is one of the Channel Islands, a self-governing British Crown dependency. During WWII, the Channel Islands came under German occupation and the citizens were isolated from the outside world for nearly five years. This is a historical novel that fictionalizes the occupation, but succeeds in recollecting and reframing the history, memory, guilt, trauma, and compassion of a community in the aftermath of WWII.

The story revolves around London-based author Juliet Ashton, who made a name for herself during the war by writing a recurring humor column about a fictional war journalist. Now that the war has passed, Juliet struggles to find a new source for her writing. One day, she receives a letter from a man on Guernsey and learns of how the islanders’ rebellious act against the Germans brought a fractured community back together. Her writing and personal interests piqued, she begins corresponding with a few members from the titular Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. Through her correspondence and eventual visit to the island, Juliet discovers material for her next book – and for her own future. I did not know anything about the occupation of the Channel Islands, so I was very interested by all the wellresearched details that were in the book. They come from a wide variety of perspectives, as the authors introduce many characters, each one a fully fleshed-out human personality that jumps off the pages. It was so refreshing to dive into their lives for a moment and leave my own thoughts and anxieties behind. The ending is entirely predictable, but I had grown so fond of the characters and the events were so charmingly described that I forgive it the cheesy romantic ending. For anyone interested, this book was adapted for the screen in 2018 and is available on Netflix, starring Lily James as Juliet Ashton.

While the movie adaptation is superb, what I love about the novel is the unique style in which it was written. The entire narrative (with a small exception towards the end) is composed of a series of letters and telegrams between the characters. When a novel is composed of a series of documents, it is called an “epistolary novel.” In the beginning, I worried that this style would be tedious to keep track of, but I was pleasantly surprised and found it to be a nice change of pace. Speaking of pace, the letters are often short, urging readers on so they do not lose the momentum of the correspondence. I also enjoyed that the events, which could have been somewhat dull to read in prose, are made more charming and humorous through the eyes of the differing personalities.

Most people no longer write pen-and-paper letters, and that is a shame. But the desire for connection has not been lost. Even in the worst of times, people are still reaching out to each other and supporting each other. I hope that May and June bring a more positive outlook to a world in crisis. I hope we never lose sight of the things that matter and the people who bring us joy, love, and wonder.

The Reviewer

Kristy Dolson lived in South Korea for five years before taking a year off to travel, read, and spend time with her family in Canada and

Australia. She holds a Bachelor of

Education and has now returned to Gwangju, where she splits her time between teaching at the new Jeollanamdo International Education Institute and reading as much as she can.

A couple’s reflections on the COVID-19 tulip massacre

Written by Jocelyn Wright

Written by Prabesh Paudel

The beauty, the splendor, the glory of spring Brutally beheaded But why?

Why attack voiceless Nature? What crime has she colorfully committed?

None whatsoever!

The slayers slay to protect their species From themselves From their desire to break free from self-quarantine From their thirst to gather despite social-distancing conventions From their tendency to gravitate towards her

An extreme act of violence An innocent victim A tragic fate For 2020 tulips Tulip, I’m sorry It’s not your fault But I cannot let you bloom

Oh Tulip, I’m sorry You will not see the spring sun I’m sorry you will not feel the spring rain

Oh Tulip, I’m sorry You have to fall for me to thrive

Oh Tulip, I’m sorry I cannot let you bloom

But I promise next year you will bloom I will let you bloom For now, I’m sorry I cannot let you bloom I cannot let you bloom

The Writers

Jocelyn Wright from Canada and Prabesh Paudel from Nepal met on a mountain in South Korea in the spring of 2015. Through various activities and exchanges, they developed a deep friendship that led to the union of their two hearts in 2018.

Every year, they impatiently await the return of the gorgeous cherry blossoms and tulips.

54

There and Here

Gwangju Writes

Written by Boipelo Seswane

The air was thick and sticky – the way only Korean summer air can be.

The cab came to a stop as neon lights streamed in from the beauty store on the corner onto the patched blue seat covers, casting shades of yellow and pink on the diamond patterns. Lerato handed the cab driver her bankcard and silently waited for him to hand it back. She had forgotten how alive Chungjang-ro felt in the summer and began to wonder if it had been a good idea to venture out.

Couples and families filled the tiny streets.

She thanked the cab driver and bade him farewell, slipping her bankcard into her pocket. She sighed to herself opening the door and stepped out among the milling people. Streetlights were beginning to faintly glitter against the gradual build of darkness. Lerato stood silently on the sidewalk for a moment before heading towards the restaurant.

It had been a crazy week. She had broken down in tears in the teachers’ room. Her co-teacher comforted her and eventually helped her make an appointment when her sobbing had settled.

Here she was today, having just gotten back into town from the hospital in another district. Stress. That is what they said was causing the lumps, but they would check of course just to be safe, so she needed to return in a couple of days.

“Get some rest,” that is what everyone, including the doctor, had said. There was nothing more she wanted than to be alone, but every moment by herself felt further from respite.

It felt lonely, stifling, scary.

Those were feelings she did not feel ready to process, so here she found herself – alone among all the laughing families and giggling lovers. The restaurant was fairly quiet for such a busy day. Lerato picked a window seat along a quiet section of the wall to still feel connected to the outside. Lerato’s eyes kept wandering as she waited for her dinner to arrive and landed on an old couple at the edge of the street packing away their street-food stall.

She watched as they worked in sections rolling down the tarp sides; old fingers struggling to undo the straps holding the flaps up. The woman dusted fluff off her bright yellow work bib before running across the square to put the trash in the bin – her reddish-blonde bob bouncing off her shoulders. She ducked around the subway entrance and then disappeared into the adjacent building.

The little stall had now turned into a truck. The old man locked the back and climbed in to wait for her. His movements were slow and weighted: feet lifting and deliberately hitting the tarred earth, pendulum arms.

The waiter appeared, announcing Lerato’s meal. She thanked him and looked back outside. The old couple and their truck were gone and a new one had arrived in its place.

Cutting into her simple steak dinner, she took a moment to find some form of peace in knowing that even though she felt she was processing madness, in essence she was okay.

Her mother had instilled that in her.

She thought back to the day before she had left home to return to Korea. Members of her father’s family had contacted her out of the blue of 24-odd years to tell her that despite everything that was happening, she was not one of them. They said she was not privy to knowing “what was happening,” and hung up in the same blue from which they had called in the first place.

In the fuzz of the surprise call and the heaviness thrown at her, she was reminded of the day she had asked her mother about her father. She had been young, curious, and without much memory of the man aside from the time her mother had frantically needed him to be present for a doctor’s visit. With bright, kindergarten eyes, she remembered that it was the first and last time she had seen him in her life.

Her mother sighed, taking Lerato’s hands into her own. They felt warm – even the callouses along her mother’s Girdle of Venus were a comfort. Lerato’s eyes darted across her mother’s tired face and felt something she could not place at her young age.

Her mother smiled, making tiny crow’s feet appear around her eyes, and said, “I’m choosing to be open with you. It’ll be too much or too little – you won’t always understand, but it’ll never be a lie.” From then on, anytime Lerato curiously opened some wound her mother had carefully tended to, her mother would take the Band-Aid off with her and redress the wound.

They both had no idea, but here they were healing each other – lightening the loads and holding each other a little closer. All these years later, they both relished in the phone calls, text messages, and whatever time they had together – even across time zones. They would talk about anything and everything, carefully cleansing parts of themselves and each other and placing love where it had seemed scarce.

55 That is what their love was like – a kind of gentle holding and understanding. Lerato smiled to herself, making a mental note to call her mother when she arrived back at her apartment. It would be nice to have a kiki, – they would laugh, perhaps cry – but more importantly, love would flow. Her spirit felt lighter as she ate the rest of her meal; she felt part of the laughter and love outside.

The Author Boipelo Seswane is a Seoul-based

South African artist. She is a teacher, performer/creator (actor, model, and painter), and a writer with experience in multiple facets of creativity, including writing, editing, theater, and film. Boipelo has always been interested in interrogating life through words and other forms of expression. She can be found on Instagram @bopzybee.