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Snow Falling on Cedars

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Snow Falling on Cedars Cover

ISBN13: 9780679764021
ISBN10: 067976402x
Condition: Standard
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Excerpt

At the intersection of Center Valley Road and South Beach Drive Ishmael spied, ahead of him in the bend, a car that had failed to negotiate the grade as it coiled around a grove of snow-hung cedars. Ishmael recognized it as the Willys station wagon that belonged to Fujiko and Hisao Imada; in fact, Hisao was working with a shovel at its rear right wheel, which had dropped into the roadside drainage ditch.

Hisao Imada was small enough most of the time, but he looked even smaller bundled up in his winter clothes, his hat pulled low and his scarf across his chin so that only his mouth, nose, and eyes showed. Ishmael knew he would not ask for help, in part because San Piedro people never did, in part because such was his character. Ishmael decided to park at the bottom of the grade beside Gordon Ostrom's mailbox and walk the fifty yards up South Beach Drive, keeping his DeSoto well out of the road while he convinced Hisao Imada to accept a ride from him.

Ishmael had known Hisao a long time. When he was eight years old he'd seen the Japanese man trudging along behind his swaybacked white plow horse: a Japanese man who carried a machete at his belt in order to cut down vine maples. His family lived in two canvas tents while they cleared their newly purchased property. They drew water from a feeder creek and warmed themselves at a slash pile kept burning by his children--girls in rubber boots, including Hatsue--who dragged branches and brought armfuls of brush to it. Hisao was lean and tough and worked methodically, never altering his pace. He wore a shoulder strap T-shirt, and this, coupled with the sharp-honed weapon at his belt, put Ishmael in mind of the pirates he'd read about in illustrated books his father had brought him from the Amity Harbor Public Library. But all of this was more than twenty years ago now, so that as he approached Hisao Imada in the South Beach Drive, Ishmael saw the man in another light: hapless, small in the storm, numb with the cold and ineffective with his shovel while the trees threatened to come down around him.

Ishmael saw something else, too. On the far side of the car, with her own shovel in hand, Hatsue worked without looking up. She was digging through the snow to the black earth of the cedar woods and throwing spadefuls of it underneath the tires.

Fifteen minutes later the three of them walked down the road toward his DeSoto. The Willys station wagon's rear right tire had been perforated by a fallen branch still wedged up under both axles. The rear length of exhaust pipe had been crushed, too. The car wasn't going anywhere--Ishmael could see that--but it took Hisao some time to accept this truth. With his shovel he'd struggled defiantly, as if the tool could indeed change the car's fate. After ten minutes of polite assistance Ishmael wondered aloud if his DeSoto wasn't the answer and persisted in this vein for five minutes more before Hisao yielded to it as an unavoidable evil. He opened his car door, put in his shovel, and came out with a bag of groceries and a gallon of kerosene. Hatsue, for her part, went on with her digging, saying nothing and keeping to the far side of the car, and throwing black earth beneath the tires.

At last her father rounded the Willys and spoke to her once in Japanese. She stopped her work and came into the road then, and Ishmael was granted a good look at her. He had spoken to her only the morning before in the second-floor hallway of the Island County Courthouse, where she'd sat on a bench with her back to an arched window just outside the assessor's office. Her hair had been woven then, as now, into a black knot against the nape of her neck. She'd told him four times to go away.

"Hello, Hatsue," said Ishmael. "I can give you a lift home, if you want."

"My father says he's accepted," Hatsue replied. "He says he's grateful for your help."

She followed her father and Ishmael down the hill, still carrying her shovel, to the DeSoto. When they were well on their way down South Beach Drive, easing through the flats along the salt water, Hisao explained in broken English that his daughter was staying with him during the trial; Ishmael could drop them at his house. Then he described how a branch had hurled down into the road in front of him; to avoid it he'd hit his brake pedal. The Willys had fishtailed while it climbed the snapped branch and nudged down into the drainage ditch.

Only once, driving and listening, nodding politely and inserting small exclamations of interest--"I see, I see, yes, of course, I can understand"--did Ishmael risk looking at Hatsue Miyamoto in the rectangle of his rearview mirror: a risk that filled all of two seconds. He saw then that she was staring out the side window with enormous deliberation, with intense concentration on the world outside his car--she was making it a point to be absorbed by the storm--and that her black hair was wringing wet with snow. Two strands had escaped from their immaculate arrangement and lay pasted against her frozen cheek.

"I know it's caused you trouble," Ishmael said. "But don't you think the snow is beautiful? Isn't it beautiful coming down?"

The boughs in the fir trees hung heavy with it, the fence rails and mailboxes wore mantles of it, the road before him lay filled with it, and there was no sign, anywhere, of people. Hisao Imada agreed that it was so--ah, yes, beautiful, he commented softly--and at the same moment his daughter turned swiftly forward so that her eyes met Ishmael's in the mirror. It was the cryptic look, he recognized, that she'd aimed at him fleetingly on the second floor of the courthouse when he'd tried to speak to her before her husband's trial. Ishmael still could not read what her eyes meant--punishment, sorrow, perhaps buried anger, perhaps all three simultaneously. Perhaps some sort of disappointment.

For the life of him, after all these years, he couldn't read the expression on her face. If Hisao wasn't present, he told himself, he'd ask her flat out what she was trying to say by looking at him with such detached severity and saying nothing at all. What, after all, had he done to her? What had she to be angry about? The anger, he thought, ought to be his own; yet years ago now the anger about her had finished gradually bleeding out of him and had slowly dried up and blown away. Nothing had replaced it, either. He had not found anything to take its place. When he saw her, as he sometimes did, in the aisles of Petersen's Grocery or on the street in Amity Harbor, he turned away from seeing her with just a little less hurry than she turned away from seeing him; they avoided one another rigorously. It had come to him one day three years before how immersed she was in her own existence. She'd knelt in front of Fisk's Hardware Center tying her daughter's shoelaces in bows, her purse on the sidewalk beside her. She hadn't known he was watching. He'd seen her kneeling and working on her daughter's shoes, and it had come to him what her life was. She was a married woman with children. She slept in the same bed every night with Kabuo Miyamoto. He had taught himself to forget as best he could. The only thing left was a vague sense of waiting for Hatsue--a fantasy--to return to him. How, exactly, this might be achieved he could not begin to imagine, but he could not keep himself from feeling that he was waiting and that these years were only an interim between other years he had passed and would pass again with Hatsue.

She spoke now, from the backseat, having turned again to look out the window. "Your newspaper," she said. That was all.

"Yes," answered Ishmael. "I'm listening."

"The trial, Kabuo's trial, is unfair," said Hatsue. "You should talk about that in your newspaper."

"What's unfair?" asked Ishmael. "What exactly is unfair? I'll be happy to write about it if you'll tell me."

She was still staring out the window at the snow with strands of wet hair pasted against her cheek. "It's all unfair," she told him bitterly. "Kabuo didn't kill anyone. It isn't in his heart to kill anyone. They brought in that sergeant to say he's a killer--that was just prejudice. Did you hear the things that man was saying? How Kabuo had it in his heart to kill? How horrible he is, a killer? Put it in your paper, about that man's testimony, how all of it was unfair. How the whole trial is unfair."

"I understand what you mean," answered Ishmael. "But I'm not a legal expert. I don't know if the judge should have suppressed Sergeant Maples's testimony. But I hope the jury comes in with the right verdict. I could write a column about that, maybe. How we all hope the justice system does its job. How we hope for an honest result."

"There shouldn't even be a trial," said Hatsue. "The whole thing is wrong, it's wrong"

"I'm bothered, too, when things are unfair," Ishmael said to her. "But sometimes I wonder if unfairness isn't . . . part of things. I wonder if we should even expect fairness, if we should assume we have some sort of right to it. Or if--"

"I'm not talking about the whole universe," cut in Hatsue. "I'm talking about people--the sheriff, that prosecutor, the judge, you. People who can do things because they run newspapers or arrest people or convict them or decide about their lives. People don't have to be unfair, do they? That isn't just part of things, when people are unfair to somebody."

"No, it isn't," Ishmael replied coldly. "You're right--people don't have to be unfair."

When he let them out beside the Imadas' mailbox he felt that somehow he had gained the upper hand--he had an emotional advantage. He had spoken with her and she had spoken back, wanting something from him. She'd volunteered a desire. The strain between them, the hostility he felt--it was better than nothing, he decided. It was an emotion of some sort they shared. He sat in the DeSoto and watched Hatsue trudge away through the falling snow, carrying her shovel on her shoulder. It occurred to him that her husband was going out of her life in the same way he himself once had. There had been circumstances then and there were circumstances now; there were things beyond anyone's control. Neither he nor Hatsue had wanted the war to come--neither of them had wanted that intrusion. But now her husband was accused of murder, and that changed things between them.

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Ashley Marie, March 29, 2012 (view all comments by Ashley Marie)
After a man is found dead near San Piedro Island, in Ship Channel on a fishing boat, a Japanese man is the held accountable for murder. With tensions still high only a few years after the attack on Pearl Harbor, islanders silently point their finger at the one who looks like the enemy. This story follows the trial of Kabuo Miyamoto and the secrets that are uncovered in the lives of the islanders after every bit of evidence is exposed. The novel is broken up by chapters, and each of the chapters describes either a flashback or provides evidence for the trial at hand. The story switches around from the past to the future, and skips generations and families very sporadically from chapter to chapter. For most of the trial scenes, there is a see-saw effect between the defense and prosecuting attorneys. Each provides seemingly damning evidence, but then the other leaves the reader questioning the evidence’s value after the cross examination. Snow Falling on Cedars, by David Gulbrandson, uncovers the mystery behind the death of Carl Heine, and exposes the secrets of the people who inhabit San Piedro, an island where nothing is truly as it seems. Snow Falling on Cedars challenges the idea of truth and perspective and is a compelling and beautifully written mystery that keeps readers on the edge of their seat.

The island of San Piedro is a peaceful island that has “a brand of verdant beauty that inclined its residents toward the poetical. Enormous hills, soft green with cedars, rose and fell in every direction” (6). The story takes place only a few years after the attack on Pearl Harbor, during the early month of December. A lot of the flashbacks that occur in the story are staged during the hysteria of the after effect of Pearl Harbor. One such flashback follows two characters that challenge the ways of thinking and strive to develop a relationship during this time of hysteria and hatred for the Japanese. Although knowing their love will never fully mature, characters Ishmael, the son of a local newspaper owner, and Hatsue, the daughter of a newly immigrated Japanese strawberry farmer, allow the passion they share to break through the walls of hatred and fear. They’re relationship is severed quite dramatically shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor because the Japanese in San Piedro are forced to relocate to Manzanar, an internment camp for Japanese immigrants. It is at this place where many of the characters, including Hatsue and Ishmael, come to the realization that life as they knew it before the war would be over.

The plot for Snow Falling on Cedars involves flashbacks to the past and then snaps back into reality and present time. Most of the flashbacks help with understanding the reactions of characters, and what leads them to the actions they take in present or future. During the trial scenes, flashbacks frequently occur with each witness’s testimony of the previous events. Other flashbacks, like the paralleling Hatsue and Ishmael plot, give dimension to the characters and intricate background information about issues they have had to overcome. Although these parallel plot lines sometimes complicate the plot, they ultimately lead readers to a fuller understanding of why the characters are the way they are.

Snow Falling on Cedars is highly descriptive and has wonderful character development. Each and every character is given a distinct background and quality that makes them realistic and believable. Although, some characters like Nels Gudmundsson, the defense attorney for Kabuo Miyamoto, contrast the physical appearance they are given. Nels is an old man who’s body is failing him faster than ever, he can barely walk, he’s blind in one eye, yet he is the only character who believes Kabuo’s innocence from the start and urges the jurors to “sentence [Kabuo] simply as an American” not by the “shape of [his] eyes” (418). The idea of perception and the idea that everything is not as it seems stems through Nels, because a half-blind man can see through the hypocrisy and the discrimination toward the Japanese after Pearl Harbor, but yet young and attractive Americans like the prosecuting attorney, Alvin Hooks, push farther into the separation of Japanese and Americans. The theme, the truth is farther than appearance, is littered everywhere in Snow Falling on Cedars and often the ones who appear to be the most wise are actually the most arrogant.

Overall, Snow Falling on Cedars touches the hearts of readers. The characters are relative and timeless, as are the themes and can be applied to almost every social issue on discrimination. David Guterson’s style of writing captures the readers from the first few paragraphs and keeps that attention to the very end through beautifully articulated language. With relatable issues such as romance and the fear of the unknown, this book stands above others in its genre. The detailed characterization and development, suspense, and drama add to the book’s creativity and style and make the book one that should be found on anyone’s personal bookshelf.

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emmejo, June 28, 2010 (view all comments by emmejo)
When a fisherman turns up dead, possibly murdered, his tiny home island is shocked and horrified. Blame quickly falls on a Japanese American man whose family had feuded with the dead man's family for many years. As the murder trial runs, everyone in the town thinks back on the history of the people of the island and the relationships that occurred, trying to understand why this happened.

I found this book boring, to be honest. The writing was dry, the characters distanced, uninteresting and hard to care about and the whole book had an air of taking itself far too seriously, and trying too hard to be "literature" rather than mere fiction.
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Henry Lacey, January 1, 2010 (view all comments by Henry Lacey)
This novel, which was an early effort by Guterson, is simply excellent. His subtle characterization and sensitive portrayal of race relations will take your breath away.
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(4 of 8 readers found this comment helpful)
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Product Details

ISBN:
9780679764021
Author:
Guterson, David
Publisher:
Vintage Books
Location:
New York :
Subject:
Literary
Subject:
Fiction
Subject:
Washington (state)
Subject:
Legal
Subject:
Journalists
Subject:
Japanese Americans
Subject:
Trials
Subject:
Legal stories
Subject:
Washington
Subject:
Washington (State) Fiction.
Subject:
Trials (Murder)
Subject:
Literature-A to Z
Copyright:
Edition Description:
Trade paper
Series:
Vintage Contemporaries
Series Volume:
week 8
Publication Date:
September 1995
Binding:
TRADE PAPER
Grade Level:
General/trade
Language:
English
Pages:
480
Dimensions:
8 x 5.13 x 1 in 0.75 lb

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History and Social Science » Pacific Northwest » Literature Folklore and Memoirs

Snow Falling on Cedars Used Trade Paper
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Product details 480 pages Vintage Books USA - English 9780679764021 Reviews:
"Review" by , "Haunting....A whodunit complete with courtroom maneuvering and surprising turns of evidence and at the same time a mystery, something altogether richer and deeper."
"Review" by , "Compelling...heartstopping. Finely wrought, flawlessly written."
"Review" by , "Luminous...a beautifully assured and full-bodied novel [that] becomes a tender examination of fairness and forgiveness....Guterson has fashioned something haunting and true."
"Review" by , "[A] thoughtful, poetic first novel, a cleverly constructed courtroom drama with detailed, compelling characters....Packed with lovely moments and as compact as haiku — at the same time, a page-turner full of twists."
"Review" by , "Guterson...is content to stretch out a flat, stereotypical description as far as possible....[L]uckily for Guterson many readers...are willing to buy into the scam that anything this dull must be Serious and therefore Fine and therefore Beautiful Writing....Beneath all the verbal rubble in Cedars is a good murder mystery crying out to be heard..."
"Review" by , "Guterson's first novel is compellingly suspenseful on each of its several levels."
"Review" by , "Guterson uses a rich scenario and cast of characters to explore issues much deeper than the usual. Like the snowfall that is it constant refrain, Snow Falling on Cedars builds up gradually, steadily, surrounding the reader with its magic."
"Review" by , "A powerful meditation on the nature of pride and prejudice and personal responsibility....Casts a deepening spell."
"Review" by , "Intriguing....Vividly written."
"Review" by , "The novel poetically evokes the beauty of the land while revealing the harshness of war, the nuances of our legal system, and the injustice done to those interned in U.S. relocation camps. Highly recommended."
"Review" by , "Luminous....This is poetry masquerading as prose."
"Synopsis" by , San Piedro Island, north of Puget Sound, is a place so isolated that no one who lives there can afford to make enemies. But in 1954 a local fisherman is found suspiciously drowned, and a Japanese American named Kabuo Miyamoto is charged with his murder. In the course of the ensuing trial, it becomes clear that what is at stake is more than a man's guilt. For on San Pedro, memory grows as thickly as cedar trees and the fields of ripe strawberries — memories of a charmed love affair between a white boy and the Japanese girl who grew up to become Kabuo's wife; memories of land desired, paid for, and lost. Above all, San Piedro is haunted by the memory of what happened to its Japanese residents during World War II, when an entire community was sent into exile while its neighbors watched. Gripping, tragic, and densely atmospheric, Snow Falling on Cedars is a masterpiece of suspense — one that leaves us shaken and changed.
"Synopsis" by , A phenomenal West Coast bestseller, winner of the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Award, the PEN/Faulkner Award, and an Abby Award nominee, this enthralling novel is at once a murder mystery, a courtroom drama, the story of a doomed love affair, and a stirring meditation on place, prejudice, and justice.
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