The Hundred Secret Senses

“‘I have yin eyes.’ ‘What eyes?’ ‘It’s true. I have yin eyes. I can see yin people.’ ‘What do you mean?’ […] ‘Yin people, they are those who have already died.’ My eyes popped open. ‘What? You see dead people?…You mean, ghosts?’”

This exchange is the inciting incident for the novel’s central spiritual conflict and the source of Olivia’s lifelong guilt. The tone of Olivia’s questions shifts from curiosity to shock and fear, which directly oppose Kwan’s calm statement of fact. This moment defines the symbol of “yin eyes” as a worldview that transcends rational explanation, setting the stage for Olivia’s betrayal and her subsequent journey from skepticism toward belief.

“Kwan was right. When her hair grew back, it was bristly, wiry as a terrier’s. And when she brushed it, whole strands would crackle and rise with angry static, popping like the filaments of light bulbs burning out.”

This description uses vivid sensory details and simile (“wiry as a terrier’s,” “popping like the filaments of light bulbs”) to show the physical aftermath of the electroshock treatments. The imagery of “angry static” suggests that the electricity forced into Kwan’s brain did not cure her alleged mental illness but instead became a permanent part of her being, fueling her strange connection to electrical currents. This lingering effect defies scientific explanation, challenging Olivia’s rationalist worldview.

“Chinese words are good and bad this way, so many meanings, depending on what you hold in your heart.”

Spoken by Kwan as she begins her story of 1864, this line functions as a guide for the reader on how to interpret her narratives. It establishes that for Kwan, truth is not literal but emotional and subjective, contingent on intent and feeling.

“And the horse was ridden by the famous ghost maiden Nunumu […] They began to call me Nunumu. And sometimes, late at night, I thought I could truly see the Bandit Maiden, not too clearly, of course, because at that time I had only one yin eye.”

This moment illustrates how Kwan’s storytelling merges personal identity with inherited memory. By recalling how others called her Nunumu and how she began to see the Bandit Maiden, she blurs the line between her present self and a past-life persona. The passage deepens the theme of The Continuity of Past and Present, showing how Kwan’s sense of self is shaped by stories that reach beyond her own lifetime. Her reference to having “only one yin eye” suggests that understanding the past is a gradual process. It also reinforces Kwan’s role as a bridge between worlds, someone who experiences time as layered rather than linear.

“She said her mother’s memories passed from heart to womb, and they’re now indelibly printed on the walls of her brain.”

This passage directly reflects the theme of The Emotional Inheritance of Trauma, suggesting that a mother’s experiences are not left behind but passed physically and emotionally to her child. The idea that memories move “from heart to womb” imagines trauma as something imprinted onto the next generation, shaping identity before birth.

“Two flickering bugs were zig-zagging their way toward each other, their attraction looking hap-hazard yet predestined. They flashed on and off like airplanes headed for the same runway, closer and closer, until they sparked for an instant as one, then extinguished themselves and flitted darkly away.”

Occurring just before Olivia and Simon’s first kiss, this passage functions as a controlling metaphor for their entire relationship. The diction of “hap-hazard yet predestined” captures the tension between chance and fate that runs through the novel, while the simile comparing the fireflies to airplanes suggests a collision course. The final image of the bugs sparking “for an instant as one, then” extinguishing themselves foreshadows the brief intensity and ultimate failure of their romance, which is consumed by the darkness of the past.

“‘You know, most of the time I know that she’s gone,’ he said with an eerie calm. ‘But sometimes, when I think about her, our favorite song will come on the radio. […] I sense her. She’s there. Because, you see, we were connected, really connected, in every way.’”

Simon’s reflection on Elza shows how grief blurs the boundary between memory and presence. His belief that songs or coincidences signal Elza’s nearness reveals how deeply he remains tied to her emotionally. This attachment highlights The Emotional Inheritance of Trauma within his marriage, as Olivia absorbs the weight of a relationship that ended before she arrived.

“Secret sense not really secret. We just call secret because everyone has, only forgotten. Same kind of sense like ant feet, elephant trunk, dog nose, cat whisker, whale ear, bat wing, clam shell, snake tongue, little hair on flower. Many things, but mix up together.”

Kwan’s explanation of the titular “hundred secret senses” defines the novel’s central concept of an intuitive form of knowledge that extends beyond the five known senses. The litany of natural senses emphasizes the universality of this instinct, suggesting it is a fundamental part of the living world that modern humans have forgotten. This definition provides a framework for understanding events that defy logic and serves as the alternative to Olivia’s rigid rationalism.

“I was the one who heard her—not with my ears but with the tingly spot on top of my brain, where you know something is true but still you don’t want to believe it. And her feelings were not what came out of Kwan’s well-meaning mouth. She was pleading, crying, saying over and over again: ‘Simon, don’t forget me. Wait for me. I’m coming back.’”

This quote marks a pivotal turning point in Olivia’s character arc, as she moves from skeptic to unwilling participant in the spiritual world. The direct reference to her own “tingly spot” shows her experiencing the “secret senses” Kwan described, validating her sister’s worldview even as it horrifies her. The stark contrast between Kwan’s fabricated message of release and the ghost’s desperate plea for remembrance creates a moment of situational irony and internal conflict, cementing Elza’s ghost as a real presence.

“Suddenly, everything about our life seemed predictable yet meaningless. It was like fitting all the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle only to find the completed result was a reproduction of corny art, great effort leading to trivial disappointment. […] We were partners, not soul mates, two separate people who happened to be sharing a menu and a life.”

This moment of anagnorisis captures Olivia’s profound disillusionment with her marriage. The simile comparing their life to a completed jigsaw puzzle of “corny art” effectively conveys a sense of wasted effort and anticlimax, that their shared history has produced something hollow. The distinction between “partners” and “soul mates” crystallizes the central emotional failure of their relationship, which lacks the fated, spiritual connection central to the novel’s idea of true love.

“Yiban said, ‘Look at me. I was born to a dead mother, so I was born to no one. I have been both Chinese and foreign, this makes me neither. I belonged to everyone, so I belong to no one. […] Tell me, whom do I belong to? What country? What people? What family?’”

Yiban’s words reflect the theme of Cultural Identity as Storytelling, capturing the emotional disorientation of someone caught between worlds. By describing himself as “both Chinese and foreign,” he reveals how living across cultural boundaries has left him feeling unclaimed by any community, unable to tell a cohesive story about his history. His list of unanswered questions—about country, people, and family—underscores a deep longing not just for identity, but for a sense of place within a larger whole. Like Olivia, Yiban experiences the ache of belonging nowhere, showing how cultural fragmentation shapes his understanding of self.

“The weft of our seventeen years together was so easily torn apart. Our love was as ordinary as the identical welcome mats found in the suburbs we grew up in. The fact that our bodies, our thoughts, our hearts had once moved in rhythm with each other had only fooled us into thinking we were special.”

Following an awkward encounter with her estranged husband, Olivia reflects on the dissolution of their marriage. The author uses a weaving metaphor (“The weft… so easily torn apart”) to illustrate the fragility of a long-term relationship, suggesting that its fabric was weaker than it appeared. By comparing their love to “identical welcome mats,” Olivia expresses a new, painful understanding that the unique intimacy they once shared was ultimately generic and replaceable, a perception that underscores her sense of profound loss and disillusionment.

“With Yiban, I love and am loved, fully and freely, nothing expected, more than enough received. I am like a falling star who has finally found her place next to another in a lovely constellation, where we will sparkle in the heavens forever.”

This moment shows how deeply Miss Banner feels seen and accepted by Yiban in a way she never has before. Her image of being a “falling star” finally finding its place suggests she has spent much of her life feeling unanchored and alone. With Yiban, she experiences a sense of belonging that is emotional, mutual, and steady. The constellation metaphor emphasizes how their connection helps her understand herself differently.

“‘My first wish: to have a sister I could love with all my heart, only that, and I would ask for nothing more from her. My second wish: to return to China with my sister. My third wish’—Kwan’s voice now quavers—‘for Big Ma to see this and say she was sorry she sent me away.’”

Just after arriving in China, Kwan reveals the three wishes she made as a young girl before leaving for the US. The sequence and content of these wishes precisely outline her primary motivations and emotional landscape: her selfless devotion to Olivia, her longing to reconcile her two worlds, and the deep wound of her exile by Big Ma. The quavering in her voice when she speaks of her third wish provides a rare glimpse into the resentment she carries, evidence of The Emotional Inheritance of Trauma.

“And being here, I feel as if the membrane separating the two halves of my life has finally been shed.”

Upon her arrival in Changmian, the setting of Kwan’s stories, Olivia experiences a moment of profound integration. This line directly reflects The Continuity of Past and Present, capturing Olivia’s growing awareness that the divide she tried to maintain between her childhood and adulthood, and between her Chinese and American identities, is no longer sustainable. Being in China dissolves the emotional barrier she once relied on, allowing memories, heritage, and present experience to merge.

“Yes, secret sense always between two people. How you can have secret just you know, ah? […] Language of love. Not just honey-sweetheart kind love. Any kind love, mother-baby, auntie-niece, friend-friend, sister-sister, stranger-stranger.”

Kwan’s words suggest that real connection comes from an understanding deeper than anything language can express. By calling it a “secret sense,” she describes a kind of knowing that happens quietly between people who are open to each other. Her examples show that this bond can exist in any relationship where care is shared. This reflects how Kwan moves through the world—trusting feelings, intuition, and unspoken ties in a way Olivia struggles to understand.

“So tell me, Libby-ah, did I do wrong? I had no choice. How else could I keep my promise to you?”

Kwan concludes her story of drowning and entering her friend Buncake’s body with a direct address to Olivia. This rhetorical question shifts the narrative from a fantastical tale to a direct justification for her very existence, framing it as the ultimate act of loyalty. By asserting that she did it to “keep my promise to you,” Kwan claims that her identity is fundamentally rooted in a pre-birth, spiritual pact with her sister.

“I’m raging, drowning, needing to take Simon down with me. ‘I’ve never been important to you! I only tricked myself into thinking I was. And Kwan tricked you with her stupid ghost tricks, that séance. […] Kwan made that up. She lied! I told her to.’”

In the climax of a furious argument with Simon, Olivia confesses her deception regarding the séance meant to banish the ghost of his deceased love, Elza. The violent verbs “raging” and “drowning” establish Olivia’s psychological state, one where she lashes out to avoid her own feelings of inadequacy. Her admission reveals how she has weaponized Kwan’s spiritual beliefs, which she simultaneously scorns as “stupid ghost tricks,” to manipulate Simon, exposing the deep fractures in both her marriage and her own self-worth.

“I flip open the Bayard Taylor book: G. P. Putnam, 1855. So what do these dates prove? That doesn’t mean Kwan knew someone named Miss Banner during the Taiping Rebellion. It’s just coincidence […] But in spite of all my logic and doubt, I can’t dismiss something larger I know about Kwan: that it isn’t in her nature to lie.”

This moment shows Olivia caught between her rational instincts and her growing sense that Kwan’s stories carry a truth she cannot easily explain. Even as she tries to reduce the evidence to coincidence, the dates on the book unsettle her confidence in purely logical thinking. What ultimately matters is her recognition of Kwan’s character: she knows Kwan does not invent things to deceive. This shift reveals Olivia beginning to trust something beyond facts—an emotional knowledge shaped by their shared history.

“‘Please take my hand, Miss Moo,’ she said. ‘Don’t let go until we arrive.’ And together we waited, both happy and sad, scared to death until we died.”

This quote concludes Kwan’s story of her past life as Nunumu, recounting the final moments before she and Miss Banner are executed. The simple plea to “take my hand” and “Don’t let go” establishes the promise of loyalty that binds the two souls across lifetimes, forming the narrative’s central karmic motivation. The paradoxical phrase “happy and sad, scared to death until we died” encapsulates the complex emotions of facing an ending with a loyal companion, suggesting that the connection itself provides solace even in the face of annihilation.

“What am I afraid of? That I might believe the story is true—that I made a promise and kept it, that life repeats itself, that our hopes endure, that we get another chance? What’s so terrible about that?”

As she waits for Kwan to return from searching for Simon, Olivia reflects on the implications of accepting her sister’s supernatural tale. The series of rhetorical questions marks the turning point in her character arc, signaling her shift from a skeptical, rationalist worldview to one that embraces faith and spiritual connection. This internal monologue reframes belief as a source of hope and continuity, suggesting that accepting the nonrational is essential for Olivia’s personal healing.

“This not secret sense. This you own sense doubt. Sense worry. This nonsense! You see you own ghost self begging Simon, Please hear me, see me, love me…Elsie not saying that. Two lifetime ago, you her daughter. Why she want you have misery life? No! She help you.”

In a pivotal conversation just before she disappears, Kwan reinterprets Olivia’s vision of Elza’s ghost. By identifying the ghost as Olivia’s “own ghost self,” Kwan reveals that the haunting is not external but a projection of Olivia’s deep-seated insecurities and her need for validation. This reframing dissolves the romantic rivalry that has plagued Olivia and connects her to Elza through a bond of karmic love (“you her daughter”), a revelation that helps resolve Olivia’s internal conflict.

“I pulled out a blackened egg, then another and another. I hugged them against my chest, where they crumbled, all these relics of our past disintegrating into gray chalk. But I was beyond worry. I knew I had already tasted what was left.”

This passage directly speaks to The Emotional Inheritance of Trauma, showing how the past persists even when its physical traces have decayed. Olivia’s discovery of the eggs reveals how fragile and incomplete tangible memories can be. As they crumble in her hands, she understands that the emotional impact of the past does not disappear with its artifacts. What matters is what she has already absorbed: the lessons, connections, and wounds that have shaped her.