In the eight years since her literary debut, R. F. Kuang has become one of the most talked–about authors in contemporary fiction. The Chinese American author burst onto the scene with her Ancient China–inspired fantasy trilogy, The Poppy War, and has since published three standalone novels: Babel, Yellowface, and, most recently, Katabasis. For such a young author in an oversaturated industry, Kuang stands out as a rising talent. She has been nominated for or won nearly 40 awards and honors, and her six novels average just above four stars on Goodreads across over 2.5 million views.
So, why does the internet hate her?
From YouTube videos to Reddit threads, any discussion about Kuang is accompanied by an endless stream of criticisms of Kuang’s pacing, character work, or prose style. Kuang’s die–hard fans are quick to label these critics as racists or sexists, hell bent on bringing an up–and–coming writer down, and they may not be entirely wrong. But the sheer volume of Kuang’s critics indicates something deeper.
I read every novel Kuang has published, and what I found surprised me: Kuang is a genius, and yet, I agree with the criticism leveled against her. Central to both her brilliance and weakness is one thing: her anger.
Kuang released her debut fantasy novel, The Poppy War, right at the 2010s fantasy space’s peak saturation. At first glance, The Poppy War had all the trappings of every other young adult fantasy book at the time: a socially–disadvantaged but spirited female protagonist, an acceptance to an elite academy, and even an enemies–to–lovers storyline. However, readers were shocked by The Poppy War and its two sequels’ mature, gritty, and unflinching war story exploring cycles of exploitation, colonialism, and the damage of systemic violence on communities. As a retelling of the Second Sino–Japanese War set in a Song Dynasty–inspired fantasy world, The Poppy War trilogy reimagines events like the Opium Wars, the brutal Japanese invasion of Taiwan, and the Rape of Nanking.
The Poppy War does not allow its readers to look away. Many fantasy books feature war, but none of them feel as real as The Poppy War. Kuang’s burning anger permeates every single page.
However, by the third book, the accounts of violence lost their shock value. By this point, the trilogy has become atrociously–violent act after atrociously–violent act, hollowing the story, with nothing else to prop it up. It is important for readers not to look away. However, after repeated, unbroken exposure, the reader becomes numb. Nothing happening in the story is surprising; there was no heart to hold on to, no characters left to root for.
But that is exactly where the brilliance of The Poppy War trilogy lies. The point isn’t in the atrocities the protagonist faces, or even those she commits, but the journey of the reader, as they slip further into apathy. The emotional journey this trilogy embarks on, from visceral to defeated, moves Kuang’s readers and fans profoundly, uniquely highlighting the violence endured by many East Asians throughout the 19th and 20th centuries, whose stories are often met with blanket, distanced pity. This effect would not be possible without Kuang’s palpable anger, propelling the story forward.
But what happens if you take this driving anger away?
Kuang’s fourth novel, Babel, is set in the 1800s and surrounds an academic department at the University of Oxford that, through magic and exploitation, bolsters England’s colonial power. With such a fascinating premise, Kuang could’ve explored how colonial powers extracted not just material resources from indigenous communities, but also their community structures, customs, and souls (perhaps in a Sinners–esque way). Disappointingly, Babel fails to realize this concept to its full potential.
Throughout this novel, Kuang’s anger never confronts the entire colonial system, perhaps due to her proximity to such structures through her Yale University, Oxford, and Georgetown University educations. Kuang instead focuses on European elites as perpetrators of colonial violence, which, while not untrue, is reductive, ignoring the other communities upholding colonialism. This approach was incomplete and disappointing, considering the novel’s diverse cast of characters—Babel could have innovatively explored marginalized peoples as active agents rather than passive victims, and introduced aspects of postcolonial theory to its audience. Instead, Babel is limited in its worldview, painting resistance as more reactionary than transformative.
Kuang’s naivety regarding colonialism was amplified by Babel’s lack of nuance or subtlety. A core component of an R. F. Kuang book is outright stating the lesson of the story every two pages or so, which worked well for The Poppy War trilogy but fell flat thereafter. In Babel, this writing style works against the narrative, highlighting the simplistic framework within which Kuang writes. This quirk of Kuang’s leaves no room for further questions, rendering her worlds quite black and white, despite her work striving to be anything but.
Kuang’s anger in Babel, misplaced and reductive, creates a tension in the work, making the book feel unresolved. The pacing, writing style, and characterizations aren’t cohesive, struggling to fit her message incongruent with the actual, nuanced histories she aims to comment on.
Further into her body of work, Kuang’s narrow perspective persists and continues to undermine her. Like Babel, Kuang’s most recent novel, Katabasis, highlights exploitation by academic institutions, this time following two graduate students who travel to hell to revive their professor so they can get recommendation letters from him. Unfortunately, this fun premise is limited by the extremely unlikeable main character Alice. Intended as a complex character whose cynical worldview is shaped by her exploitation by her advisor, Alice instead is annoying, childish, and one note. Kuang goes too far when crafting a “complex” character, instead giving her very few redeeming qualities. However, beneath the flat characters, weak character dynamics, and shaky pacing is a lack of Kuang’s own heart for the story.
The last book in Kuang’s catalog perfectly proves this point. Yellowface, a satirical comedy, is written from the perspective of a white woman who steals and publishes her Asian friend’s work. The book is a deep dive into the not–so–glorious side of the publishing industry, and how the system inherently rewards those with privilege—subjects Kuang naturally has experience and feelings about. Throughout Yellowface, Kuang’s seething almost seeps into her words, resulting in a deeply enjoyable, albeit undeniably spiteful book.
In Katabasis, Kuang may be mad at academic institutions again, but it lacks the same bite it did in The Poppy War trilogy or even Babel, leaving Katabasis like a car without a driver at the wheel. Yellowface succeeds, as Kuang can lean on her expertise and emotions to write compellingly. However, without her anger, Katabasis lacks direction or driving force, making this book feel shallow—a true shame because its premise was so utterly fun.
If you’re sensing a pattern here, then you may be starting to understand Kuang’s so–called haters. Kuang has brilliant ideas and generates unique premises, examining colonialism and racial power structures under different lenses. However, her work is driven by her anger—for better or for worse. Kuang’s anger can be very powerful, but if it’s not directed in the right place, or present at all, it leaves her novels feeling unresolved.
When channeled, her anger provides enough fuel for the piece to mask its underlying pacing issues, lack of nuance or subtlety, and shoddy character work. It’s hard not to be moved by Kuang’s work—there is so much potential in her coverage of important, underdiscussed topics. At this point in her career, Kuang could go down as one of the greatest fiction writers of the 21st century—but her writing style and worldbuilding need a lot of growth before she can claim that title.
