Yáng Shuāng-zĭ’s Taiwan Travelogue is a Matryoshka doll of a novel. Its making is as complicated and layered as the story it tries to tell – where the translator and author change roles, the identity of the author shape-shifts, and a controversy about its authorship and corrections complicate subsequent editions.

Translated from Mandarin Chinese by Lin King, Taiwan Travelogue is shortlisted for the 2026 International Booker Prize, and is, without doubt, the most inventive novel competing for the prize.

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On the Taiwan trail

The reader wades through an armload of information before beginning the novel proper.

The novel begins in May 1938, before the Second World War, with the arrival of 26-year-old Japanese novelist Aoyama Chizuko in Taiwan. At this point, Taiwan is a Japanese colony and Aoyama-san is on a tour at the invitation of the Japanese government. She shows little interest in official events and is instead determined to experience the “real” Taiwan. Japan is the Mainland, while Taiwan, the Island.

She has a formidable appetite too, and wants to experience as much of the Island through flavours and food, as with sights. Aoyama-san befriends Chizuko (Chi-chan), who has been hired as her interpreter. Intelligent but demure, Chi-chan is an accomplished cook and uncomplainingly indulges Aoyama-san’s requests. They travel through the Island, eating and sightseeing, and Aoyama-san finds herself drawn to Chi-chan as one would to a new friend, quickly declaring her as her “best friend.” However, Chi-chan, despite Aoyama-san’s kindness, prefers to keep her distance.

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The travelogue – which is essentially a novel – is disguised as a translation of a rediscovered text by a Japanese writer. There are lengthy footnotes by the authors, Aoyama and Yáng (which I suppose cannot be ignored) and the translator (which, frankly, we could have done without).

While Yáng has used Japanese, Chinese, and Taiwanese Hokkien in the novel, King has condensed three languages into English. It is no easy challenge to convey the hierarchy of languages and social structures in a colony. As a translator, I ruminated on this puzzle, but as a reader, I stopped referring to the footnotes after a point. Frequent explanations of food items, recipes, and measurements were immaterial to my enjoying the story. What I had on the page was good enough, and the granular details in no way helped me close the distance – which I did not mind.

As they travel through Taiwan, eating and drinking, Aoyama-san realises that Chi-chan, who is of a similar age, is as gifted intellectually as she is in the culinary arts. The opportunities that have been denied to Chi-chan are because of her inferior social status – that of being a concubine’s daughter and being colonised. Aoyama-san is quick to come to Chi-chan’s rescue whenever she’s mocked or insulted.

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And yet, her affection doesn’t come from a place of deep enlightenment. Aoyama-san is kind and decency comes naturally to her. Her extensive travels with Chi-chan leave her none the wiser about systemic discrimination in colonies. She hankers for “authentic” Taiwanese cuisine without realising that a colony’s food culture is often adapted to poverty and scarcity. The food writing is undeniably the most fascinating and the richest offering of the novel, imaginatively brought to life in English by King (regardless of the footnotes!). The “monster” in Aoyama-san’s belly could only be matched by my own – I wished I could magically conjure every dish I was reading about.

Art and craft

That said, things soon became tiresome. I found myself skimming the passages – this was not so much because of the elaborate descriptions of the food but because of the protagonist’s uninspired reaction to it. Eager to try the dishes, she makes Chi-chan travel lengths to procure them for her, but her appreciation is almost always gluttony and uniform wonderment at the clever use of even the most humble ingredients. Chi-chan’s attempts to enlighten her companion on the social background of a dish are often in vain. For a novelist, I found Aoyama-san to be rather parochial and ineloquent.

I’m not bothered about the unlikeability of a character, but by these blind spots that do not quite make sense.

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The novel picks up pace well after the halfway mark, thereafter progressing at a frenetic pace. It appears there’s a sudden inspiration to pack up the story, and the politics is laid out in sermonising to Aoyama-san for her various slip-ups during her travels, leaving little scope for the reader to introspect.

Once I finished reading the novel, I wondered what it would’ve been like without the food writing. Certainly, not endearing enough. It enriches the novel aesthetically, but becomes a one-trick pony that does not adequately answer (or ignite questions) about Aoyama-san and Chi-chan’s relationship. The same scenarios are played over and over again, to the point of monotony.

I do enjoy an inventively crafted novel; however, I cannot quite understand why Taiwan Travelogue presents itself as a travelogue-memoir when it is an inadequate representation of both. The notes, footnotes, and backstory burden the novel with information that is ultimately of no intrinsic value.

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Of course, one must then consider the unique position of novels to present a version of the truth, overlaps and digressions notwithstanding. These questions are worthwhile, but as far as I’m concerned, I’ll reserve the intellectual exercise for another book.

Also read:

Taiwan Travelogue, Yáng Shuāng-zǐ, translated from the Mandarin-Chinese by Lin King, And Other Stories.