Skillful ... Effective, efficient moments prop up the prewar section of the book, which is otherwise rushed. The main issue is Wachman’s choice to narrate the book in the present tense ... It is strange, after the intensity of this experience, to arrive at the novel’s denouement. Like the beginning, it unfolds as a blur. Wachman’s writing in a much more conventional mode; the opening provides guidance that’s not required and the closing mends tears that are better as they are. The Sunflower Boys starts too early and ends too late. These flaws are, nonetheless, outpaced by the novel’s successes. The line between a serious-minded confrontation with this pitch-black corner of humanity and an exploitive-seeming, schlocky book is thin as fishing line and he stays consistently on the right side.
Sam Wachman...has created that rarest phenomenon: a war novel that feels at once timeless and precisely of the moment ... [The] narration is more revealing about the costs of this brutal invasion than any numbing tally of casualties could ever be ... Wachman navigates [voice] with exceptional skill ... Artem...speaks with a naturally poetic voice that’s a lustrous amalgam of sweetness and urgency ... A perfect note of repetition that only unconscious artfulness could strike.
Convincing and dramatic ... The novel works on multiple levels. It offers a historically specific look at Ukraine, a celebration of same-sex love, and a meditation on the pull of home. Surefooted in both its craft and its theme, the novel also lauds and exemplifies the power of art — Tato’s stories, Artem’s drawings and literary fiction itself — to help heal the trauma of war. The larger political forces may be inexorable, but, Wachman suggests, an individual can still save himself, and maybe a handful of those he loves.
Tender and poignant, shot through with deep sadness and wry humor, The Sunflower Boys is a bittersweet rendering of life in modern-day Ukraine, the effect of war on ordinary lives, and a young person discovering who he is.
