I’m not a crier. Not necessarily by choice—I’d say it’s healthy to cry—but I’m just not brought to tears often.
This book just about brought me to tears, which is something no other book I’ve read has done (and yes, maybe that just means I need to let my emotions out more, but that’s a topic for another post).
Pachinko is a multi-generational family saga of Korean immigrants moving to Japan, spanning from 1910 to 1989. Such a premise will surely drive away many readers—and it nearly drove me away too, as I’ve never been drawn to historical fiction. However, on a whim, I picked up Pachinko, and oh boy am I glad I did.
Pachinko starts with Yangjin, a Korean woman in a small fishing village who gives birth to Sunja, the life of much of the novel.
Sunja grows up to be a hardworking daughter, but she is drawn to a wealthy man she spies at the fishing docks. This man slowly encroaches upon her life, until she is in youthful, misguided love. She is still just a girl when the wealthy man, Hansu (who is decades older than Sunja), impregnates her on a hidden away beach near the village.
Hansu promises Sunja everything she might ever need, with his wealth apparently endless. However, when Sunja realizes she is pregnant, and that Hansu wishes to marry her and take her far away, she refuses. Sunja feels deceived, and her unwed pregnancy, Sunja and her mother know, will bring immense shame to the family. So instead, Sunja marries an ill minister visiting the village who hears Sunja’s plight and wishes to help. Together, Sunja and the minister set off for Japan, with Sunja leaving behind all she has ever known, including her home and her mother.
Thus kick off the events of a family saga filled to the brim with devastating loss, enraging struggle, and empowering perseverance. Sunja and her family’s story encompass historical details from Korean immigration to Japan and the associated prejudices to the Second World War from an underrepresented perspective.
Min Jin Lee has captured themes of just about every kind in Pachinko, ranging from the immigrant experience and the struggles to make it in a foreign land, to love, death, sacrifice, and parenthood.
Lee paints the histories and landscapes of her novel with a detailed brush, and both her characters and settings bustle with life. Pachinko reads quickly and simply, but carries a profound heft in meaning with its words.
In the end, Pachinko is about the struggle to eek out an existence in a society blind to individual sorrows. Pachinko is about a search for meaning in a murky world, amidst arcs of history that seem to play out around oneself, in separation from oneself.
Pachinko’s name refers to a mechanical gambling game called pachinko, which is popular in Japan. This name smartly sums up the essence of the novel:
“There could only be a few winners,” Lee writes, “and a lot of losers. And yet we played on, because we had hope that we might be the lucky ones.”
Pachinko is the kind of book I search for, hope for, and read for.




