Winner of a PEN Translates award
“Dreamlike…[Ho Sok Fong] has created a world in these stories that is entirely, and uniquely, her own. Straddling the surreal and the pointedly political, Ho reveals herself to be a writer of immense talent and range.” ―Kirkus Reviews, starred review
“Excellent…Ho Sok Fong’s vivid imagination and keen eye for women’s pain, gracefully translated, are hallmarks of a deeply talented writer.” ―Publishers Weekly, starred review
“[Ho Sok Fong’s] writing is beguiling and seasoned with striking imagery.” ―Guardian
“Ho’s stories force the reader to cogitate uncertainty―that is the punch that Ho packs.” ―Chicago Review of Books
“Striking… Ho Sok Fong’s fable-like constructions are sometimes cryptic, often surprising, and almost always moving.” ―Foreword Reviews
“Lake Like a Mirror is more evidence, if more were needed, that Chinese-language literature is thriving in Southeast Asia. Ho writes free from both the censorship that prevails in mainland China but also behind a linguistic veil that must to at least some extent shield her from the petty tyrannies that can sometimes be imposed by English and the internationalism that comes with it, a veil that is only drawn back for us readers by the efforts of her able translator Natascha Bruce.” ―Asian Review of Books
"Ho’s stories are powerfully unsettling not because they are strange, but because, especially for Malaysian readers, they are so familiar and real." ―Mekong Review
“The nine stories in [Ho Sok Fong’s] second collection are troubling and enigmatic, as they try to make sense of a society that seeks to oppress freedom. In precise and unsettling prose, each one considers, in its own unique way, the words that go unsaid and the lives that go unlived…The focus of the collection as a whole: the damage done to women denied a voice.” ―Irish Times
“The most accomplished Malaysian writer, full stop.”–Promethean Fire Review
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The sheet of white over her eyes and nose gradually lightened, shrank, pulled away from her face. It became weightless, took on a kind of glossy curve. She could clearly see an enormous white O emerging from her open mouth.
Two Os. Three. She lost count. They floated up one after the other into the boundless blue of the sky.
No one saw, she thought. She had vomited white balloons. The father was sitting in front of her, of course he hadn’t seen. The boy was sitting next to her, but she didn’t know if his eyes had been open. He hadn’t stopped screaming for the whole ride. Oh, he definitely hadn’t seen: afterwards he said to her, “You weren’t sick.”
He looked confused. She could read the sentence that was hiding inside his chest: You see, you’re not like us. As soon as they were off the ride, the three of them opened paper bags and violently threw up. Su Qin thought back to that morning, when they’d ordered hamburgers, 80 Summer Tornado rice au gratin, ham and chicken cutlets, fries, icy cola. She hadn’t tried to stop them.
They kept their heads lowered, convulsing in the same way, at the same tempo. They were so alike, from how they kneaded their stomachs to their dazed expressions as they tried to calm their breathing. She handed out tissues. When she collected their bags of vomit, she felt a wave of nausea.
It wasn’t just because they were another woman’s children. Even if she had given birth to them herself, they could still have grown up to be more like their father. But if they could become his children, maybe they could become her children, if she fought for it. If, if. If she loved them until she died. Maybe then they would have to talk to her, despite her obvious accent, and slowly, eventually, bit by bit, maybe they would love her back.
But they would still leave her. When she died, she would be alone, she would die a lonely old woman. 
