Literary Arts

By Eileen Miller

First published in Washington Independent Review of Books Feb 19, 2026 here

Few authors would make the choice to disparage the subject of their book in its opening pages, but in declaring the neighborhood of Xita, “a place of little significance” in the introduction of The Neighborhood: Space, State, and Daily Life in a Manchurian City, Nianshen Song does just that. This is not the declaration of a scholar frustrated by years of wasted fieldwork, however, but rather a point critical to the central theme of the work.

The neighborhood in question is Xita (written as 西塔 in Chinese and pronounced “she-ta”), located in Shenyang, capital of the northeast Chinese province of Liaoning. It is of such minor significance, Song notes in his epilogue, that even some of Shenyang’s residents have little impression of it.

Yet through close analysis of a diverse array of primary sources, he recounts the surprisingly numerous instances in which the broader history of East Asia came through this neighborhood and profoundly shaped its development. Though seemingly inconsequential, Xita — covering just half a square mile — doubles as an unlikely mirror of China’s own transformation over three-and-a-half centuries.

The Neighborhood begins with the convergence of religion, politics, and ethnicity. In 1644, to enhance their connection to the Mongol-majority Inner Asia territories, the Qing emperor strategically chose to patronize Tibetan Buddhism, the dominant religion of the Mongols. From this alliance, Xita got its name, a reference to the West Stupa, a mound-like tower built on the site of a Buddhist temple on the outskirts of what is today Shenyang. From here, Song delves into the priest-patron relationship between the Qing state and the Tibetan Buddhist lamas and how this unique relationship influenced the lamas’ daily lives.

With the fall of the Qing Dynasty and transition into the Republican Period, the alliance between the Qing and the Tibetan Buddhists unraveled, and the population of the latter in the region declined. Through these developments, Song strengthens his case for Xita’s mirroring of Chinese history writ large.

As this history moves forward, Song keeps his focus anchored on the West Stupa temple. The next period was profoundly shaped by Japanese imperialism, and Xita was no exception, experiencing the turmoil of imperial competition through the rival Russian, Japanese, and Chinese railroads that cut through it. After a train station was built near the West Stupa, the neighborhood underwent urban development and witnessed an influx of Japanese tourism. As the Japanese Empire sought to justify its role as the dominant power in Asia, it turned to the neighborhood’s Tibetan Buddhist roots — and symbols of that identity like the West Stupa — to tie Japan to the rest of Asia and promote the imperial narrative of a pan-Asian network led by Japan.

In later chapters, Song’s retelling of history remains rooted in Xita and the West Stupa temple, revealing just how many of the developments of contemporary Chinese history echoed in this small neighborhood. His recounting of Xita’s transformation into an ethnic Korean enclave reflected the wider history of the Korean diaspora in East Asia, as well as the ups and downs of China’s economic transition. He enriches his historiography with interviews from several ethnic Korean residents of Xita, showing how the past shaped not just the neighborhood but the daily lives of its inhabitants.

As the neighborhood took on various roles and identities — serving as a symbol for the ties between Tibetan Buddhism and the Qing government; site of imperialist competition; home for ethnic Koreans in an era of turbulence; thriving commercial center in a rust-belt town; a model for multiethnic harmony — so did East Asia and China undergo these changes.

Meticulously researched, The Neighborhood draws upon a rich array of sources to provide a roving picture of a place across 350 years. Its impressive bibliography includes, among other things, résumés of Buddhist lamas, 20th-century travel guides, travelogues by Japanese writers, postcard images of the West Stupa across time, and firsthand interviews with ethnic Korean residents. This combination of sources allows Song to keep his focus tethered to Xita while exploring the city through various lenses, from religion, imperialism, and tourism to commerce and migration.The Neighborhood is remarkable for its sustained focus on a single small place, just as Xita and the West Stupa for which it was named are remarkable for the layers of history that cross through them. Though Xita is unlikely to be mentioned in many contemporary travel guides, Song’s book successfully makes the case for dedicating academic attention to this “place of little significance,” and maybe taking a trip there, too. 

By Eileen Miller

This article was first published in Washington Independent Review of Books January 20, 2026, here. 

“New” is a word rarely affixed to the idea of “history.” But while the content of history remains unchanged, contemporary understanding of it can certainly shift. Gregory Smits’ The Ryukyu Islands: A New History from the Stone Age to the Present encapsulates this idea. Beginning its narrative nearly 35,000 years ago, the book traces the history of the Ryukyus, a chain of roughly 160 islands stretching from Japan to Taiwan, from the pre-modern era to the present.

This is familiar territory to Smits, who teaches courses on history and Asian Studies at Penn State and has written three other books on the subject. The Ryukyu Islands is his most comprehensive yet, drawing upon a wealth of primary and secondary sources, combating misconceptions, and introducing fresh ideas about the islands’ past.

The book is divided into four parts, covering the peoples and societies who lived on the islands during the pre-state era; the rise and development of the islands’ first centralized state, the Shuri Empire; the fall of the Shuri and its annexation by Meiji Japan; and the Ryukyus in the modern era. Each section begins with a brief introduction that includes a list of additional sources relevant to the topics covered.

Smits traces the dawn of Ryukyuan history from the late Paleolithic Era. In tackling one of many misconceptions he addresses throughout the book, he notes that it was not the people populating the islands during that era, but rather settlers moving south from Japan in the 11th and 12th centuries, who are the ancestors of contemporary Ryukyuans.

Trade is a major theme here, with the islands’ strategic locale — a pivotal factor in shaping their history — giving them access to China, Japan, and Korea. This location also made them the ideal outpost for wakō, pirates of Japanese, Korean, mixed Japanese and Korean, and (later) Chinese heritage.

The islands became more formally incorporated into regional dynamics in the 1370s as wakō began to participate in the tribute trade with Ming Dynasty China. This, Smits argues, was a tactic used by the Ming to domesticate the marauding wakō and maintain access to the international trade ostensibly forbidden by Ming law. Although this period saw the emergence of “trade kings” in the Ryukyus, they were not traditional kings. Instead, the title served as a license to participate in the tribute trade.

In the early 1500s, the Ryukyu Islands were unified for the first time under Shō Shin, the descendant of a prominent trade king. Smits describes this period of the islands’ history — the Shuri Empire — as comprising a centralized kingdom with a maritime empire. The Shuri Empire lost its independence in 1609, however, after a war with Tokugawa Japan’s Satsuma Domain resulted in the Ryukyus falling under Satsuma control.

One compelling concept that Smits contributes to contemporary understanding of Ryukyuan history is the idea of the Ryukyu Kingdom of the early 17th to late 19th century as a “theatrical state.” After absorption into Satsuma rule, the Shuri — whose direct administration was now restricted to the southern Ryukyus — continued the tribute trade with Ming China while feigning independence. Ryukyuan officials presented a fictive version of the Ryukyus, hiding their cultural ties to Japan, performing Chinese culture, and even changing surnames to appear less Japanese.

This dynamic benefited Tokugawa Japan, which lacked diplomatic ties to China, and the Satsuma, who reaped the commercial benefits of trade. It also benefited the Shuri: Only an “independent” Ryukyu Kingdom could trade with China, making the trade relationship the sole reason the kingdom could retain limited autonomy.

Smits’ thorough chronicle continues up to the year 2024. He covers the annexation of the Ryukyus by Meiji Japan and their subsequent transformation into Japan’s Okinawa Province. After that, he discusses World War II and the horrific toll the Battle of Okinawa wrought on civilians. He continues on to American military occupation, the reversion to Japanese control, and the ongoing presence of U.S. military bases on Okinawa.

Many other themes are deftly explained, as well, including the suffering of the common people and the role broader geopolitical shifts played in shaping the Ryukyus. Smits’ frequent references to these recurrent themes give the book a solid sense of organization, tying eras separated by centuries together into a cohesive narrative. Still, contemporary understanding of Ryukyuan history is far from complete, a point Smits makes multiple times. While “new” is an adjective that only lasts so long when describing history, this work can proudly claim it.

By  Sagun Shrestha

This article was originally published in The Washington Independent Review of Books here.

A satirical, behind-the-scenes look into the world of diplomatic relations and embassy woes, Tom Navratil’s debut novel, Dog’s Breakfast, depicts career ambitions coming to a head during a fierce battle of wits between a sardonic veteran envoy and a striving junior officer. Set in the U.S. embassy in the fictional country of Vodania, it features Andy Pulano, the ambassador’s second-in-command, who grows tired of being treated with less respect than the ambassador’s prized Labrador retriever and so hatches a series of schemes to undermine his superior. These efforts are jeopardized, however, with the arrival of junior officer Tara Zadani, who, while on doggie duty, discovers information that could put Andy’s entire operation at risk.

In a sea of nonfiction published by Washington insiders, what compelled you to write a satirical novel?

May Dog’s Breakfast float cheekily on that grim and foreboding sea like a bright red bathing suit abandoned by a skinny-dipper. The writing I did as a diplomat — aimed at both internal and external audiences — needed to be accurate, succinct, and persuasive. It was a satisfying and meaningful component of the job, but I felt no inclination to continue in a similar mode after I left. Instead, I wanted to have fun, unconstrained by facts and judicious analysis. I love creating stories without a dress code.

You describe Dog’s Breakfast as a “look at embassy follies and international intrigue.” How much of the novel is true to life, as opposed to embellished for the sake of entertainment?

I made up everything in Dog’s Breakfast, including the country where the story takes place. However, this book sprouted from the well-fertilized soil of my decades as a foreign-service officer. The portrayal of the organizational and social structure of an American embassy, the types of problems diplomats grapple with, the dynamic between Washington and the field, and so on, are all strongly grounded in State Department life as I experienced it. And I hope that, amidst the twists and pratfalls of a ridiculous story, I also tapped into emotional truths.

How does humor translate into a novel, as compared to in shorter-form pieces like the ones you’ve published on Medium and elsewhere?

A short humor piece gets plucked from the vine and served fresh; a novel is a season of feasts. (Let me know if I’m dishing up too many metaphors here.) For both, my goals are the same: to evoke insights and amusement. To work, they have to hold the reader’s attention and build towards something, with no room for padding in either form. I’d say the biggest difference is that a short piece needs to be funny, period, whereas a book-length comedy aims to achieve a tasty mix of drama and humor. It also offers vastly more scope for callbacks, inside jokes, and running gags, which I enjoyed sprinkling into Dog’s Breakfast.

How has your storytelling evolved over the course of your career?

Thank you for assuming it has. From some of my short humor, you could argue it has regressed to a more juvenile level. In any case, one clear change is a movement away from foreign-service stories. My second novel, currently undergoing revision, is a family drama with a diplomatic protagonist, but subsequent manuscripts do not feature a State Department setting. I’ve also noticed that the timelines keep getting shorter. I think I want my stories to inhabit their moment to the fullest.

Of all the exotic and outlandish animals you could’ve picked for the ambassador’s pet, which has a major role in the plot, what made you choose a chocolate Lab?

I love this question because it puts me in a bind. Without revealing anything prematurely, I can say two things. The ambassador’s pet had to be a dog, in keeping with — and in support of — the book’s title. And the reason for choosing that particular breed becomes clear near the very end of the story.

By Oluseyi Akinyode

This article was originally published in Washington Independent Review of Books here.

As Election Day looms, have you pondered why Donald Trump so strongly appeals to Evangelical Christians and the far Right in America? Well, so has Joel Looper. In his new book, Another Gospel: Christian Nationalism and the Crisis of Evangelical Identity, he traces the roots of evangelicalism to colonial America, revealing how the movement’s cultural identity became enmeshed in national politics. Looper also examines the Christian mandate as modeled by the early church, arguing that, at its core, the Gospel is about witnessing Jesus Christ through the way we live our lives. An adjunct professor at Baylor University and coordinator for Shalom Mission Communities, a network of international Christian communities, Looper is also the author of Bonhoeffer’s America: A Land Without Reformation.

What personal experiences did you draw on while writing Another Gospel, and how did these shape the themes you explored?

I’m a Christian who continues to cling white-knuckled to the label “evangelical.” Whether I should or not is another matter, of course. One of the reasons I do is that the term evangelical actually means “gospel” or, better, “gospel-oriented person.” However, many people outside the movement, Christians and non-Christians, look at conservative evangelicals and at the Jesus of the New Testament, and they say, “Huh? How did you get here from there?”

I’ve had similar moments with evangelicals. One guy I know well — an extraordinarily generous man who would take an undocumented person into his home if he knew them and that they were in trouble. This same guy trumpets Trump’s nonsense claims about Haitian immigrants eating pets and worries aloud that immigrants are ruining the country. He’s hardly unique, obviously. I know dozens of others like him.

During the pandemic, many evangelicals like this man were terrified by lockdowns and mandatory masking, fearful that their rights were being taken away — even as more than one in 300 Americans died [of covid-19]. Even if I came to think the federal response was seriously misguided at certain times, this sort of reaction seriously disturbed me. Experiences like these convinced me that many, though not all, evangelicals aren’t being guided by Scripture or the commands of Jesus. And that realization was the seed of this book.

Given the upcoming election, how do you hope readers will engage with the book’s themes?

It’ll hardly surprise readers that I’m concerned about the election. I do think that Donald Trump represents a threat to our democratic republic. As a Christian, I’m even more concerned about what support for Trump has done to the church’s reputation. My hope is that, whether my name is attached to it or not, people will think about the book’s primary thesis — that Christian nationalism is a false gospel (Galatians 1:6). And, once they’ve mulled it over, that they would put it in their own words, discuss it, preach it, and get it out into the ether before November 5th. Perhaps the actuality of Christians putting Trump back in office won’t be another stumbling block to add to the pile we [as evangelical Christians] already have.

You argue that many Evangelical Christians are holding onto an idealized American way of life rather than living out the values modeled by Jesus Christ. How does this perspective help us understand Trump’s appeal within this community?

Many evangelicals fear that they’re about to lose the American way of life you’re referring to. Some of this is because of the LGBTQ movement — a long and complicated story for another day. Then Trump comes along and says again and again, “I will protect you,” “I’m standing in their way,” and “I’m the only one who can save you.” Evangelical Trump voters either don’t care or haven’t grasped that this Faustian bargain has scandalized millions, many of whom used to call themselves evangelical.

A key argument in Another Gospel is that Christian Nationalism is rooted in the nation’s colonizing of the church, not vice versa. Why is this a crucial point for readers to grasp?

Think about the kind of community envisioned in Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount. It’s supposed to be a “city on a hill” — but it’s not America. This city operates like no other polity that humanity has ever encountered. People would have to change dramatically for the better to live this way.

Therefore, attempts to turn Jesus’ ethics into public morality is a fool’s errand. Human societies just aren’t capable of it. There is a name for this inability to do so in the Abrahamic faith: It’s called sin. To live out what Jesus is talking about, we need a different sort of polity in which people are enabled by God to live the kind of life Jesus spoke about. The New Testament calls that polity the church. So, the church is supposed to have a very different existence from the nation.

When Christian nationalists try to take America back for God (to use Samuel L. Perry and Andrew L. Whitehead’s language), the result is that the church ends up becoming obsessed with national concerns rather than living this different sort of life. They baptize American culture and allow Machiavellian political maneuvers as means to supposedly righteous ends. But it just won’t work. America isn’t baptize-able, and neither is any other nation. Even if the church were spiritually in shape enough to “Christianize” America, America isn’t Christianize-able. Instead, the nation and its politics have shaped the church’s life. As I shared in Another Gospel, the nation has colonized the church, not the reverse. That is Christian nationalism.

You note that rising Christian nationalism often coincides with declining church attendance. How might this trend impact the future of the evangelical church in America?

I think the future of the evangelical church in America is bleak, numerically speaking. Fundamentally, the gospel that many evangelicals believe in has left them with no reason to go to church. If the Christian life is an individual pursuit where the aim is to go to heaven when you die, and the Christian character is primarily geared towards “owning the libs,” why do you need church for that? You don’t, at least in the long run. Again, this is true for many evangelicals but not for all.

So far, what has been the response to Another Gospel among the evangelical community? Has any of the feedback surprised you?

Some have been enthusiastic. Ralph Wood’s review in Christianity Today is one example. But then there are friends — and, really, extended family — who went into attack mode before the book had reached the shelves. The vitriol I got from some of them really did surprise me. Saying, “Read the book!” or “Okay, can we have a conversation, look at Scripture, think about this together?” has gotten me nowhere with most of them.

By Imani Nyame

This article was originally published in the Washington Independent Review of Books here.

“Some stories walk right off the page. They meander down a dark street like drunken men. At the water’s edge they take off their clothes and fold them carefully…When the shelf gives way they begin to swim…You shade your eyes and watch as they disappear into the smear between land and sea. Then all you have is a pile of old clothes and memory.”

 – Minrose Gwin

Beautiful dreamers are ordinary. They’re everyday people clinging desperately to utopian ideals of justice, the promise of sweet limerence with a passionate lover, and any semblance of possible escape. But even the ordinary among us can learn extraordinary lessons, and they do in Minrose Gwin’s Beautiful Dreamers. A coming-of-age tale set in the 1950s, the novel unfolds through the eyes of Memory (“Mem”) Feather, a young girl with a withered hand who navigates the complexities of life as she tumbles into womanhood.

At the heart of Mem’s journey is her mother, Virginia. From good Southern stock, Virginia initially follows the prescribed path: She marries the love of her life, a decorated Air Force pilot, and has a baby. But things take an unexpected turn when her husband abandons them both for a far-off French paramour, and Virginia is left to rebuild their lives, starting in a musty room at the El Camino Motel in Mexico. Her determination to make it on her own is admirable but borders on negligence, forcing Mem to find solace in the blissful ignorance of childhood, even as Virginia struggles to keep them afloat.

This fragile existence comes to an abrupt end when a friend intervenes, alerting Mem’s grandparents to the situation. Soon, she and Virginia find themselves along the Mississippi Gulf Coast in Belle Cote, Virginia’s hometown, where they reconnect with the lively, queer Mac McFadden, Virginia’s lifelong friend and part of her chosen family. Together, the three form an unconventional household, defying the conservative South as they walk the fine line between rebellion and privilege, embodying the complexities of white saviors who, despite their inherited wealth, sincerely strive to challenge the status quo.

Food plays a grand role in the narrative, serving as a marker for the events that push the story forward. From fried green tomatoes to fresh-shucked oysters and bread pudding, the flavors of the Mississippi Delta enrich the proceedings, grounding the characters’ experiences in the cultural tapestry of the South.

Mem herself spends considerable time in the kitchen, trying to escape her mother’s bean casseroles. Virginia, youthful and spirited, is as much a child as she is a parent, so Mem often assumes a caretaking role. It seems all the adults in her life are searching for something elusive, something more. Mem, however, believes she holds it all in her disfigured hand, which she affectionately calls her “paw.” Through it, she receives messages from plants and animals, adding a mystical layer to the tale (though, arguably, the narrative would flow just as well without it). At her side, her sassy, loyal cat, Minerva — named after the Roman goddess of justice and wisdom — provides the objectivity the passionate humans around her often need.

Things take a significant turn when Tony Amato, the beautiful dreamer himself, enters the picture. Tony’s devilish charm sets off a chain of events that disrupts the delicate balance of their unusual family. Despite Minerva’s warnings, Mem is unable to gain control of the situation. Soon, Virginia and Mac fall under Tony’s spell, excusing his extravagant lies in exchange for the fleeting escape those untruths provide. When an unexpected alliance emerges among them, nothing will ever be the same.

Beautiful Dreamers is a delightful yet melancholy read, a deceptively ordinary story that nonetheless leaps off the page and lingers when it’s over. Gwin invites readers to immerse themselves in the tantalizing meridional world of Belle Cote and witness a young girl’s journey toward adulthood — a journey as enchanting as it is bittersweet.

By Oluseyi Akinyode

This article was originally published in Washington Independent Review of Books here.

In The Other Valley, debut novelist Scott Alexander Howard contemplates the lives of a town’s residents against a landscape that physically unfolds across time. The story follows protagonist Odile and her friends as they make their way in the world and raises questions about whether the steps we take must be informed by past decisions, or if it’s possible to carve a new path to a more fulfilling life. A resident of Vancouver, British Columbia, Howard holds a Ph.D. in philosophy from the University of Toronto and was a postdoctoral fellow at Harvard, where his work focused on the relationship among memory, emotion, and literature.

The Other Valley addresses some heavy philosophical themes. How did you give them the attention they deserved without making the book feel dense?

Your question makes me think of something Timothy Williamson, a British philosopher, once said. He was talking about how to achieve depth in writing, and he pointed out that if you try to be deliberately deep, you will produce writing that isn’t. It’s pretentious or “dense” instead. If you aim for truth, you get depth for free. My goal was to tell a story that felt true and let any deeper philosophical themes emerge naturally, if and where they wanted to. As a result, anything that feels philosophical in The Other Valley is tightly connected to Odile and her story. It’s there because it’s true to her situation and world, not because I consciously tried to address any particular theme. The best way to write a philosophical novel is to ignore philosophy as much as possible.

The main character, Odile, makes choices as a 16-year-old that significantly alter her future. What questions about free will and predestination were you hoping to explore in telling her story?

I don’t want to give away any choices Odile makes by how I answer this question, so I’ll say this: More than free will, I’m interested in the relationship between someone’s identity and their circumstances, and especially their luck. Luck can change our lives, but typically, when we imagine our lives changing, we assume that we’ll still be ourselves, just headed down a different path. In reality, the path molds and alters us. The person walking it is fundamentally different from the person who set out. Odile is a person whose life is heading in one direction, and then, in a single moment, she starts heading in another. I wanted to explore how that change affected who she became compared with who she might have been. In the novel’s world, the person she used to be is still alive on the other side of the mountains — which adds a layer of poignancy and eeriness.

Your vivid descriptions of the landscape are striking. Did you draw on any particular experiences or memories in bringing the novel’s setting to life?

Thank you! The description of the landscape and climate in The Other Valley was inspired by parts of the Southern Interior of British Columbia, where I spent most of my childhood. It’s a region with deep glacial lakes stretching north and south. You find lush orchards by the lakeshore, but as soon as you get up into the mountains, the landscape is extremely dry and arid — in fact, it’s home to Canada’s only desert. That juxtaposition of the pastoral and the barren seemed to fit the novel, which blends longing and foreboding. So, I went with the natural environment I knew intimately and invented a new town to put there.

You made the bold choice not to use quotation marks in the dialogue. What inspired that decision?

I did it for the same reason many writers do: In a first-person story, it holds the reader inside the narrator’s mind. It’s a stylistic way of conveying that everything you’re reading is steeped in the character’s voice. It’s an effect that suited this story. Honestly, I didn’t think I was making a bold decision. Dialogue without quotation marks is easy to follow when the writing is clear.

This is your debut novel. Can you share a bit about its road to publication?

It’s tough to count how many drafts of the manuscript I wrote. I rewrote this novel from scratch at least two-and-a-half times before overhauling and revising it for what felt like ages. I read it out loud to myself more times than I can count, and I read the whole thing backward while proofreading. By the time I was ready to query agents, it was in good shape. The published book only differs from the version I queried in subtle but meaningful ways. Like most debut authors, I found querying to be a grind. I had no personal or professional connections to the publishing world, so I was firing emails into slush piles and hoping for the best. After five months of near silence, I received requests for a complete manuscript from some agents, and things moved quickly. The agent I chose sold the book to Simon & Schuster (Atria and Scribner Canada) in a few days. When I got the news, the first feeling — before joy — was immense relief. It sounds silly, but other writers will know the feeling: If I didn’t get the novel published, I felt like I’d be letting the characters down.

What’s next for you?

I’m writing my second novel with the usual churn of exhilaration, doubt, and determination. And I’m also helping develop the screen adaptation of The Other Valley.