Generational Trauma

The Poppy War — Opium, War, and the Illusion of Power

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Kuang, R. F. The Poppy War. Harper Voyager, 2018.

The Poppy War by R. F. Kuang is a military fantasy novel deeply inspired by the Second Sino-Japanese War, exploring imperialism, genocide, addiction, revenge, and the cyclical nature of violence. Through the journey of Fang Runin (Rin), Kuang examines the devastating cost of power and the illusion that destruction can ever fully solve suffering.

Rin begins as a poor orphan raised by adoptive parents who profit from smuggling poppy products. In order to escape being married off to an older man, she studies obsessively to gain entrance into Sinegard, an elite military academy. Once there, her intelligence does not make up for her lack of combat training, and she is repeatedly targeted for being from the countryside. Alienated from the academy’s traditional paths, she becomes drawn toward Master Jiang and the world of shamanism, opium, and the gods.

Master Jiang explains the spiritual potential of the poppy seeds:

“These seeds are a shaman’s dream… used with the proper mental preparation, give you access to the entire universe contained within your mind” (47).

The poppy becomes more than a narcotic within the novel. It functions simultaneously as a spiritual gateway, a destructive addiction, and a metaphor for war itself.

War as Addiction

One of the strongest literary elements within The Poppy War is metaphor, particularly the relationship between opium and warfare. Throughout the novel, fire, the Phoenix god, and narcotics become emotionally intertwined. Rin gains access to incredible power through shamanism and the Phoenix, but every use of that power consumes her further.

When Rin first unleashes the Phoenix during battle, Kuang describes the fire almost like a drug overtaking the body:

“The fire billowed outward with a vengeance… She controlled the flame no more than the wick of a candle might” (252).

The power is intoxicating, overwhelming, and impossible to fully control. Just as opium offers a temporary escape while destroying the user, war offers the illusion of victory while consuming entire civilizations.

This metaphor becomes even more explicit later in the novel:

“But something so destructive inherently and simultaneously has marvelous potential” (192).

The same logic people use to justify opium is often the logic nations use to justify war: destruction becomes acceptable if it promises power, safety, revenge, or transformation. Yet both ultimately leave devastation behind.

Rin herself fears losing control to the fire in the same way someone fears surrendering themselves to addiction:

“She didn’t want to admit that she was scared. Scared of being in a state where she had little control of herself” (321).

Even Altan, who claims mastery over the Phoenix, eventually reveals himself to be entirely consumed by it. His use of power has become normalized to the point that he no longer recognizes it as a form of dependence. The novel subtly suggests that trauma, violence, and addiction can become inherited cycles passed through generations, particularly through Rin and Altan’s shared history as survivors of Speer.

The Gods Do Not Choose — We Do

The novel’s climax becomes devastating because Rin ultimately chooses annihilation. After witnessing unimaginable violence and genocide, she calls upon the Phoenix and destroys the Mugenese completely, including innocent lives alongside soldiers and political leaders. Before she acts, she is warned:

“To give your soul to the Phoenix is to enter hell” (499).

And afterward comes the novel’s most important line:

“The gods choose nothing. You chose” (502).

That line reframes the entire story. The gods, addiction, war, and fate are not solely responsible for destruction. Human beings still make choices within systems of violence. Power does not remove accountability.

This deeply connects with themes in my own writing in Discordia, particularly those surrounding Eris, the Kalonox, and the golden apple metaphor. Reading The Poppy War helped me think more deeply about autonomy, tyranny, and the illusion of destiny.

In Greek mythology, Eris uses the golden apple to create discord by appealing to vanity and self-interest. Eve’s apple similarly represents knowledge, disobedience, and autonomy. In Discordia, the Kalonox draws inspiration from both symbols. The oppressors pursue power, believing it will give them control over reality itself, while the deeper truth may be that liberation only happens when people stop waiting for gods, rulers, or destiny to save them.

Like The Poppy War, I want the story to suggest that fate is not something handed down by divine power. The gods do not create reality alone—people do. Tyranny survives because people fear standing alone against it. The Kalonox, therefore, becomes less about ultimate power and more about exposing the selfish desires of those who seek it.

What I take from Kuang’s novel for my own writing is the strength of layered metaphor. The fire in The Poppy War is simultaneously war, addiction, trauma, rage, power, divinity, and destruction all at once. The metaphor works because it exists emotionally, politically, spiritually, and personally throughout every layer of the narrative.

Sleeping in Flame — Reincarnation, Manifestation, and Breaking Cycles

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Carroll, Jonathan. Sleeping in Flame. Doubleday, 1989.

Sleeping in Flame by Jonathan Carroll is a surreal fantasy novel that reimagines the fairytale of Rumplestiltskin through themes of reincarnation, manifestation, gender roles, generational trauma, and memory. Set largely in Central Europe, the novel follows Wilson, the stolen son of a beautiful woman who once manipulated a magical little man named Breath in order to gain the love of a king. Breath loved Wilson’s mother deeply and willingly used his magic to help her, turning hay into gold so she could rise into royalty. But after gaining power and status, she rejected him completely. In retaliation, Breath claimed her firstborn son and raised him himself.

Unlike the traditional fairytale, however, Breath becomes far more emotionally complicated than a simple villain. He loves Wilson like a son, teaches him magic, and raises him across multiple lifetimes through reincarnation. Yet that love becomes possessive and destructive. Every time Wilson grows old enough to fall in love or begin a life of his own, Breath kills him and reincarnates him again, unable to let him go.

The novel moves fluidly between past, present, and future, slowly revealing how memory and identity bleed into one another across lifetimes. Wilson begins recovering memories of previous lives while becoming aware of the emotional manipulation and loneliness that drive Breath’s actions. To break the cycle, he must eventually remember Breath’s true name. Ironically, Breath had always wanted to be known and understood. The mother never asked for his name, even though he would have given it to her freely.

Manifestation and the Present Moment

One of the strongest themes in this novel is manifestation and the power of focused thought. Breath teaches Wilson that magic depends on specificity and intention. Even the smallest overlooked detail can alter the outcome of a wish. Carroll uses magic less as spectacle and more as an extension of consciousness itself.

A particularly powerful scene takes place during the Nazi occupation of France. A German soldier enters a classroom searching for Jewish children. Although he knows the children are being taken to their deaths, he sees them as innocent and beautiful rather than monstrous. Without realizing it, he unconsciously uses magic to save them:

“Without them doing anything, we watched them fly away over a purple field of lavender” (136).

The moment feels dreamlike and devastating at the same time. It raises difficult questions about free will, morality, obedience, and human choice during times of tyranny. Would people choose compassion over orders if they truly understood the consequences of their actions? The soldier himself does not even fully understand what he has done. When he later asks where the children and teacher disappeared to, another boy responds playfully:

“The boy giggled and threw up his hands as if they were full of confetti” (136).

The scene captures how manifestation in this novel often occurs unconsciously through emotion, desire, or instinct rather than deliberate control. This is deeply connected to themes within my own writing surrounding resistance, moral awakening, and the question: When do we rise against tyranny?

Love, Memory, and Reincarnation

Maris, Wilson’s lover, becomes one of the emotional anchors of the story. As a child, she builds intricate LEGO cities, creating detailed worlds that others dismiss or fail to understand. Building cities becomes her way of grounding herself in the present moment. Later, she creates a detailed image of medieval Vienna for Wilson without realizing its connection to his past lives. Vienna is the city that Breath repeatedly reincarnates him throughout time.

Maris leaves Wilson a note reading “Breathing you,” a phrase that ultimately helps him remember Breath’s name and unravel the cycle controlling his life. Carroll writes:

“When you love someone deeply, you know secrets they haven’t told you yet” (253).

That line beautifully captures the emotional core of the novel. Love becomes tied to memory, intuition, and recognition across lifetimes. The novel suggests that people carry emotional traces of one another through time, even when they cannot consciously explain why.

Generational Trauma and Gender Roles

The story also explores gender roles and inherited emotional wounds. Breath’s obsession with Wilson’s mother stems from rejection and humiliation. Instead of healing from that rejection, he transforms his pain into manipulation and control, continuing to haunt both mother and son across generations. At one point, he says:

“I’d go back to her in her dreams… We’d show her what she was missing” (208).

What begins as heartbreak evolves into possessiveness and emotional cruelty. The cycle of masculine control and manipulation becomes an inheritance, repeated over time. In many ways, the novel mirrors the same themes of generational trauma and gendered violence I saw explored in Grace by Natashia Deón, where harmful gender roles continue echoing through families and relationships across generations.

What I take from this novel for my own writing is the idea that the past, present, and future constantly consume and inform one another. Carroll shows how memory, breath, love, trauma, and identity move through generations almost spiritually. More importantly, the novel suggests that awareness, presence, and emotional honesty may be what finally breaks inherited cycles.

Pedro Páramo — Ghosts, Generational Trauma, and Setting as a Living Force

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Rulfo, Juan. Pedro Páramo. Translated by Margaret Sayers Peden, Grove Press, 1994.

Pedro Páramo by Juan Rulfo is a ghost novel of magical realism, centered on generational trauma during and after the Mexican Revolution. The story follows Juan Preciado, who travels to the town of Comala after his mother’s death in search of his father, Pedro Páramo. What he expects to find is the beautiful town his mother once described to him: “a beautiful view of a green plain, with a bit of yellow from the ripening corn” (13). Instead, he arrives in a decaying landscape, almost entirely occupied by ghosts.

The guide who first leads Juan into Comala describes the town as “the very mouth of Hell” where the dead return to reclaim their blankets (15). From the beginning, death is normalized within the setting itself. The living and the dead exist together, conversations blur between memory and hallucination, and time moves in fragments rather than straight lines. Juan eventually becomes consumed by the voices and ghosts surrounding him, dying from fear and exhaustion before continuing the story as one of the dead himself.

One of the most striking aspects of this novel is its nonlinear structure and fragmented narration. The story shifts between timelines, memories, conversations, ghosts, and interior thoughts without warning. At times, this can feel disorienting, but it also reflects the emotional collapse of Comala itself. The town is haunted not only by literal ghosts, but by the lingering violence of exploitation, corruption, revolution, and abandonment.

Setting as a Protagonist

What interested me most in this novel was the way Comala itself functions almost like a protagonist. The town is not merely a backdrop to the story; it actively shapes the emotional atmosphere of every scene. Comala represents exploitation, ruined revolution, abandoned women, inherited suffering, and the decay left behind by powerful men like Pedro Páramo.

Throughout the novel, the setting constantly shifts between memory and reality. Damiana Cisneros recalls hearing celebrations and parties in the streets: “There was a time when I could hear the commotion of a party that kept going night after night…” only to discover “Nothing” when she investigates (50). Ghosts roam through the town as though death itself has become part of the landscape: “If only you could see the horde of shadows roam the streets” (60). Yet memories of the past briefly illuminate the darkness through Juan’s recollections of his mother describing carts filled with corn and life moving through the streets (55).

The novel repeatedly contrasts beauty with decay. One moment, the sky is described as bright and full of light, and the next, the physical world becomes suffocating and grotesque:

“The bed was made of otate reeds and covered with burlap sacks that smelled of urine…” (64).

The environment mirrors the emotional and moral collapse of the town itself. Rain, heat, rot, dust, and darkness all become extensions of grief, violence, and abandonment. Later, after Susana San Juan recounts traumatic memories connected to her father, the narration shifts outward:

“Outside it continued to rain. The Indians had left. It was Monday, and the valley surrounding Comala was still drowning in rain” (100).

The environment reflects the narrative’s emotional state. The endless rain feels less like weather and more like accumulated grief soaking into the town itself. In Pedro Páramo, nature and atmosphere become emotional language.

Pedro Páramo and the Corruption of Power

Pedro Páramo’s influence poisons every layer of Comala. Wealth protects him from accountability while everyone beneath him becomes disposable. When a woman comes demanding justice because Pedro’s son murdered her husband, Pedro’s administrator attempts to pay her off with corn rather than acknowledge responsibility:

“I offered her fifty hectoliters of corn if she’d forget the whole thing…” (74).

When Pedro asks who the grieving people were, and his manager responds that he does not know them, Pedro simply replies that they therefore “do not exist.” This moment captures the emotional core of the novel: people without power become invisible. Comala is haunted because suffering was ignored rather than healed.

Susana San Juan becomes one of the most emotionally powerful figures in the story. Her mental instability, trauma, sensuality, and longing are written with poetic intensity. Before her death, she speaks of swimming naked in the ocean and surrendering herself to the sea (105). Water becomes symbolic of purification, release, and returning to something natural beyond suffering.

When Susana dies, the town erupts into celebration:

“They buried Susana San Juan and few in Comala noticed. They were celebrating” (126).

The celebration is not because of Susana’s death itself, but because the town is distracted by festivities while Pedro loses the only person he ever truly loved. Her death marks the emotional collapse of his power. Just as Pedro spent his life taking from others, loss is finally returned to him. After Susana’s death, Comala fully descends into ruin.

What I Take Into My Own Writing

This novel taught me how setting can function as an emotional force within a narrative rather than simply a location. Through memory, atmosphere, ghosts, weather, and fragmented storytelling, Rulfo transforms Comala into a living embodiment of generational trauma.

For my own work in Discordia, I want to explore a similar setting by showing Zetheus before and after societal collapse, using memory, hallucination, storytelling, and environmental shifts to reflect emotional change within the world itself. Pedro Páramo also reminded me to pay close attention to diction, pacing, and the emotional rhythm of sentences. Even in confusion and darkness, the language remains poetic and intentional.

Beneath its ghosts and fractured timelines, the novel ultimately becomes a story about how violence and exploitation echo through generations long after death itself.

Mongrels — Generational Trauma, Monstrosity, and Memory Through Motion

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Jones, Stephen Graham. Mongrels: A Novel. HarperCollins/William Morrow, 2016.

Mongrels by Stephen Graham Jones is a coming-of-age horror novel told through the perspective of an unnamed boy growing up in a nomadic family of werewolves. Living alongside his Aunt Libby and Uncle Darren, the nephew struggles to understand who he is as he waits to discover whether he will eventually transform himself. Throughout the novel, Jones uses the werewolf figure not simply as a monster but as a metaphor for poverty, marginalization, generational trauma, displacement, and survival.

The nephew is rarely named directly. Instead, he is often referred to through shifting identities such as “the nephew,” “the vampire,” “the mechanic,” or “the prisoner.” This creates a feeling of instability surrounding identity itself, reflecting the uncertainty of adolescence and self-discovery. Although his experiences are supernatural, the emotional core of the story feels deeply human: the desire to belong somewhere while fearing what you may become.

As the family is forced from town to town, instability becomes their normal way of life. Darren works dangerous and degrading jobs, while Libby repeatedly pulls the family back together whenever things fall apart. Eventually, Darren disappears after falling in love with a woman outside the family, leaving the nephew once again abandoned by a male role model. Shortly before the nephew’s own transformation, Libby promises she will remain beside him:

“I’ll still be here,” the aunt says, reaching her hand across, taking his.
“Just like Darren,” the nephew says. “Werewolf promises aren’t any good, don’t you know that one by now?” (296).

That line captures one of the novel’s strongest emotional themes: the fear of abandonment inherited across generations.

Werewolves as Social Outsiders

One of the most powerful aspects of Mongrels is the way Jones compares werewolves to the poor, the criminalized, and the socially unwanted. The nephew grows up believing imprisonment and suffering are inevitable for people like him: “Everybody goes to jail at some point. Werewolves especially” (53). The family survives through scavenging, temporary work, theft, and constant movement. Childhood friendships are temporary because they never last long enough to take root.

The werewolf mythology becomes a framework for exploring inherited trauma. The nephew’s mother became pregnant after an act of violence and died during childbirth. Throughout the novel, there are fragmented stories surrounding her death, some softened or disguised by family storytelling. The grandfather often “humanizes” horrific events through strange, indirect narratives instead of telling the truth directly. One disturbing example involves him describing killing a rabid dog:

“Once I hit her that first time, little pup, I like to have never got that next lick in…” (17).

The story feels awkward, violent, and emotionally detached, especially through the child’s eyes. Later, however, the novel reveals a much darker parallel beneath the story: the brutal death of the nephew’s mother during childbirth while infected with the werewolf condition. The grandfather seems more comfortable transforming trauma into folklore than confronting the real violence directly. In Mongrels, the “humanized” stories often become the fantasy, while the true human experiences underneath remain unbearable to speak aloud.

Memory Through Cars

One literary element that deeply stood out to me was the way cars function throughout the novel. The vehicles are disposable, stolen, temporary, patched together, and constantly changing, much like the family itself. Yet at the same time, the make and model of each car becomes a way of tracking memory, emotion, and periods of life. The cars become emotional landmarks.

Jones repeatedly introduces vehicles with careful specificity:

“Nearly two weeks later, he finally drifted in again. What he drove… was a pretty pristine old Mercury Monterey” (71).

And later:

“The Sabre wasn’t close to street legal anymore…” (71).

The naming of the cars grounds the timeline emotionally. Instead of remembering life through stable homes or permanent places, the family remembers periods of survival through whatever means carried them at the time. The cars become connected to memory, identity, grief, movement, and family history. Each one marks a chapter in the nephew’s life. Because the family is constantly uprooted, the vehicles become one of the only consistent ways to orient time and memory.

This detail resonated with me deeply because it reflects how people living unstable or nomadic lives often attach memory to objects in motion rather than permanent locations. In Mongrels, cars become temporary homes, escape routes, symbols of survival, and emotional timestamps all at once.

Monstrosity and Emotional Truth

What I take from this novel for my own writing is the permission to lean into dramatized or monstrous figures to express emotional truth. By filtering lived experiences through imaginative characters like werewolves, the novel creates a bridge between realism and metaphor, allowing readers to emotionally inhabit difficult truths. The supernatural elements never feel disconnected from humanity. Instead, they intensify it.

Libby’s warning to the nephew echoes throughout the novel:

“Not all kids born to a werewolf are a werewolf” (21).

Beneath the horror and mythology, Mongrels becomes a story about inheritance—what we fear inheriting, what we cannot escape, and the possibility of becoming something different despite where we come from.

Grace — Motherhood, Survival, and Lyricaly Haunting

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Deón, Natashia. Grace. Counterpoint, 2016.

Grace by Natashia Deón is a historical horror novel that follows the life and death of a young Black woman named Naomi. Told through a nonlinear narrative, the novel follows Naomi as a ghost after her death, watching over her daughter Josephine while reflecting on the trauma, violence, love, and resilience that shaped her life. The story blends ghost story, historical fiction, and lyrical prose into something emotionally devastating and deeply human.

Gender roles and the brutality of slavery play a major role throughout the novel. Naomi begins as a hidden child, concealed by her mother from Massa, the slave owner who controls their lives. After witnessing abuse and violence against her family, Naomi kills Massa in order to protect herself and avenge her mother. She is then forced into survival alone, wandering through a world where Black women are constantly vulnerable to exploitation and violence.

Throughout the novel, men repeatedly fail the women around them through manipulation, abandonment, rape, cheating, and abuse. Yet alongside this darkness is an equally powerful theme of motherhood and feminine endurance. Naomi’s mother survives by complying outwardly while secretly protecting her children. Hazel, Naomi’s sister, becomes an example of survival and sacrifice. Even when Naomi herself is betrayed by Jeremy—the first man she truly loves—she eventually refuses to remain trapped in abuse. Jeremy attempts to pimp her out, abandons her during pregnancy, and later returns only to shame her. Naomi ultimately walks away, choosing both herself and her child over submission.

Motherhood Beyond Death

Shortly after Josephine’s birth, Naomi is killed by slave catchers. However, death does not end her connection to her daughter. As a ghost, Naomi remains tethered to Josephine, unable to fully let go. Some of the most haunting moments in the novel are not the supernatural ones, but the emotional truths surrounding motherhood, attachment, and grief. Annie tells Naomi’s spirit:

“One day you will leave her, by your choice. It’s what you’re supposed to do. At some point, every mother has to let her child go” (185).

That line stayed with me long after reading the book. It transforms the ghost story into something much larger about the pain of motherhood itself: loving someone enough to eventually release them into the world.

Lyrical Prose and Emotional Rhythm

One of the strongest literary elements in Grace is Deón’s lyrical prose. She slows down intimate moments and emotional observations until they almost feel suspended in time. Her writing often moves with a poetic rhythm that makes even painful scenes feel beautiful and deeply sensory.

“I wish he would smell sweet to me like a man looking for love or seemed soft like a man who could love me silly and forgive me for the thangs he didn’t know about me” (38).

The prose lingers inside physical sensation, emotion, memory, and desire. Rather than rushing through events, Deón allows moments to fully breathe. Her storytelling carries humor, sexuality, tenderness, and humanity even within the horror of slavery and violence.

What I take from this novel for my own writing is the importance of slowing down and honoring the details of life itself. Grace reminded me that storytelling is not only about plot progression but about fully inhabiting emotional moments, relationships, and sensory experience. The novel feels like a ghost story not simply because of Naomi’s spirit, but because it honors the cycle of life, motherhood, trauma, love, and memory itself. It suggests that even after death, the emotional imprint we leave on one another persists.