Review: All That's Left Unsaid — A delicate intertwining of nostalgia and the reality of loss

Lien skilfully crafts a poignant and gripping crime novel, although it feels reductive to refer to it as one.

“If a family suffered a ‘good’ death - the kind that happened to old people, the kind that everyone was prepared for - the Asians in town showed up with family members in tow, gifting envelopes stuffed with cash. But if it was a “bad” death - the kind caused by terrible luck, where children or gangs or heroin were involved - everyone was suddenly too busy, was out of town, or hadn’t heard the news.”

All That’s Left Unsaid is a complex rumination on the muddled, yet tightly woven threads between our protagonist, Ky Tran, and her former world. Returning to Cabramatta following the tragic and untimely death of her little brother, Denny Tran, Ky is once again bathed in the ‘energetic buzz’ and salty phở of her childhood. Stifled conversation and obligatory condolences permeate the novel as Ky desperately searches for answers. Answers, because, despite there being a dozen witnesses to Denny Tran’s murder at the restaurant ‘Lucky 8’, each insists they saw nothing. In her efforts to subdue her grief and dismiss any traces of regret, Ky retrospectively scrutinises the life of her brother, who had just graduated year twelve, aching for an explanation. Tirelessly interviewing each witness, Ky begins to question the image of a compassionate, sensitive, and accomplished kid that had etched himself into her brain.

Tracey Lien’s debut novel is a beautiful and evocative meditation on loss and regret, underpinned by an exploration of Australia’s Vietnamese diaspora. Lien unpacks the disconnect felt between two cultures — misunderstandings and moments of ignorance frame the novel. Mispronounced names and cultural faux pas further exacerbate the grief felt by Ky. The sort of grief that is born of regret, confusion, and loneliness. Unable to access the emotions of her parents and unable to connect with the fumbled, yet well-meaning consolations from teachers, Ky resorts to dissecting her fractured memories for some sense of comfort. 

Lien skilfully crafts a poignant and gripping crime novel, although it feels reductive to refer to it as one. What makes this story all the more compelling is the delicate intertwining of nostalgia and the reality of loss. The narrative feels real and lived in. Written in an intimate third-person perspective, we bear witness to Ky’s grief, both inwardly and outwardly. Laid bare for the reader, her internal monologue is punctuated by the voice of another — the disembodied voice of her childhood friend Minnie. Their back-and-forth conversations expose Ky’s insecurities and self-doubt, whilst enlightening the reader to their perception of Cabramatta, one that is often clouded by nostalgia and childish naivety. 

“But Minnie wasn’t here. Ky was on her own.”

The story is structured around a series of interviews, each conversation reflecting an aspect of Ky herself. As she attempts to unravel the mystery shrouding her brother’s death, Ky tactlessly interrogates the witnesses, often to the point of discomfort. Her intense frustration is pervasive and often overshadows her reticent parents’ silent grief. Lien’s prose is engaging, constructing a clear and relatable voice that effectively conveys the complexities of loss and acceptance. 

Lien crafts a collection of distinct characters, each explored with equal care and consideration. The novel’s strengths lie so clearly in the highly personal and sympathetic rendering of human emotion. The overcoming of adversity, both individually and as part of a community, is central to the story. Themes of racial inequality, socio-economic imbalance, and an indifferent justice system contextualise the Tran family’s grief and accentuate how ‘indiscriminate luck was in a town like Cabramatta’. Lien ultimately seeks to illuminate the problems faced by a community that has long been ignored. 

“Cabramatta proved that a town could be gorgeous and sick, comforting and dangerous, imperfect but home.”

Most importantly, Lien writes with love. All That’s Left Unsaid calls into question the meaning of home, analysing every facet of the word to somehow consolidate a definitive understanding of the word. Home, she decides, is a place of familiarity that will always take you in whether you’d like it to or not. 

“A wish for all the strength in the word to endure, to survive, to finally, finally, finally conquer this place we call home”

All That’s Left Unsaid hits shelves 13 September.