The Man from Saigon

Marti Leimbach

99.000 đ

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About the Author

Marti is known for her bestsellers, Dying Young, a New York Times bestseller made into a film starring Julia Roberts, and Daniel Isn't Talking. Her latest novel is Dragonfly Girl, is a YA action/thriller about a high school girl with a gift for science who discovers a "cure" for death and ends up embroiled in an international rivalry.

She is interested in neurodiversity and has shared the stage with young inventors at the Human Genome Project (Toronto), the National Autistic Society, and the University of Oxford.

She teaches on the Masters Programme in Creative Writing at the University of Oxford. When she's not reading or writing, you'll find her among her menagerie of animals, including a small flock of Ryeland sheep

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An enthralling and beautiful new novel about love and allegiance during the Vietnam War, from the author of Daniel Isn't Talking and Dying Young.

It's 1967, and Susan Gifford is one of the first female correspondents on assignment in Saigon, dedicated to her job and passionately in love with an American TV reporter. Son is a Vietnamese photographer anxious to get his work into the American press. Together they cover every aspect of the war from combat missions to the workings of field hospitals. Then one November morning, narrowly escaping death during an ambush, Susan and Son find themselves the prisoners of three Vietcong soldiers who have been separated from their unit.

Now, under constant threat from American air strikes, helpless in the hands of the enemy, they face the daily hardships of the jungle together. As time passes, the bond between Susan and Son deepens, and it becomes increasingly difficult for Son to harbor the secret that could have profound consequences for them both.

Editorial Reviews

Amazon.com Review

Amazon Exclusive: Karl Marlantes Reviews The Man from Saigon

A graduate of Yale University and a Rhodes Scholar at Oxford University, Karl Marlantes served as a Marine in Vietnam, where he was awarded the Navy Cross, the Bronze Star, two Navy Commendation Medals for valor, two Purple Hearts, and ten air medals. His debut novel, Matterhorn: A Novel of the Vietnam War, will be published in April 2010. Read his exclusive guest review of The Man from Saigon:

This novel is one of the great examples of artistic imagination. Marti Leimbach was just starting grammar school at the time in which she set The Man from Saigon. She wasn't there--but if you read this book, you will be.

Writers are always told in writing classes to write about what you know. What Leimbach knows and writes about superbly is the human heart, its relationship with others, and its conflicts with duty, fear, and ambition. This is the primary focus of the novel. A young woman is assigned to cover the Vietnam War for her women's magazine. "Women's interests... orphans, hospitals, brave young GIs, gallant doctors..." Once there, however, she learns about the deadly fascination of war, and is constantly getting herself into scrapes that terrify her and make her fervently wish she'd stayed in some rear area where it was safe and where her editor expected her to stay. But something pulls her back and she's at it again--and again terrified. All the while, she finds herself becoming deeply involved with a war-sick, married reporter who's been there 23 months but can't seem to go home, and her photographer, a Vietnamese man who speaks flawless English and never talks about his background or his frequent disappearances.

The story is set in Vietnam in 1967. This reviewer, a Vietnam veteran, was initially skeptical that Leimbach could pull it off. Through obviously careful and considerable research, however, going through memoirs and articles of the time that told the stories of people like Army nurses, women correspondents, and soldiers on both sides, she has constructed a realistic and fascinating setting. This takes not only skill, but courage. Any time a writer steps outside of her skin, for example, into the skin of a jaded, male war correspondent, or into a time and place she has never inhabited, she exposes herself to mistakes and criticism. If the writer doesn't do this, then her art stands limited to her experience