Scan barcode
versmonesprit's reviews
216 reviews
In the Miso Soup by Ryū Murakami
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? N/A
0.25
Horror is a broad genre, so imagine my bewilderment at finding out In the Miso Soup does not, cannot fit into any of the niches, but is instead a major sin against papers, trees, ink, books, and readers: the author, the publisher, the average reader all try to gaslight you into thinking something must be going on for this book, when in fact absolutely nothing at all is — not characters, not narration, not plot, and not even horror. Ryū Murakami had the biggest target anyone could wish for, and still managed to miss by several miles.
There are several culprits.
The first, obviously, is the plot. There are three crime scenes in this book, and only one is “on-screen”. The only massacre readers get to witness falls comically short, for the reason that there is in fact an inexplicably super-natural hypnosis going on. Not only does this give the killer a convenient advantage and remove the tension of a chase, it also eliminates any exposition of fear and horror on the victims’ part. This unrealistic plot convenience is not an isolated incident either. Despite the book incessantly yapping about the author’s “cultural analysis” (though it’s impossible to call something that shallow as such) and unabashedly info-dumping, not once do we get any explanation as to how someone who had five bodies under his belt by the age of 12 could ever see the light of day again, let alone fly internationally with no fuss whatsoever. And as “Frank” info-dumps about his childhood, we get yet more cringy exaggeration that was clearly intended to be horrifying but instead makes it feel as if the book was written by a child — like how a very small child manages to bite his mother’s arm so hard and deep that it gushes blood into his mouth. In what universe?? You may be thinking, “Oh come on, you have to suspend your disbelief, this is fictional, and on top, a horror story.” Except serial killers are not supernatural horror, even when the author for whatever stupid, godforsaken reason chooses to involve “black magic” — oh yeah, there’s also that! How could I forget?! A boy, not even 12 yet, is incarcerated at a mental hospital, where he meets people who teach him black magic and how to cut throats without causing arterial spraying. Yeah. Yeah. We’re supposed to believe that. And maybe, just maybe, if black magic actually played any part in the book, this could’ve been forgivable. But no, we only get supernaturally powerful hypnosis, and that all glossed over (or even performed “off-screen” yet again) despite the book taking any semblance of an opportunity to go on and on and on and on about all sorts of irrelevant minutiae. The only things omitted from the book are the things that are vital to the plot 🙃 We will get info-dumped when it absolutely is not necessary to learn anything about the main characters’ childhoods, but oh no, we will not witness anything essential!
Speaking of all the torturous yapping, the way Ryū Murakami absolutely murders his own book (which is the only real horrifying thing going on for this allegedly horror book) is to repeat everything, every unimportant detail, every juvenile thought, at least thrice. You just read exactly what everyone did? Yeah here, read it again. And just to be sure, come on, read it again. And because Ryū Murakami is convinced you are the dumbest fucker to have ever plagued God’s green earth, read also the very mid breakdown of the few scenes, actions, dialogues that could have had some symbolic value. But no, you think it’s done? Haha, funny. We’re not. Here’s five more pages on that exact same thing. You don’t like that? Too fucking bad, this is all you’re getting up until the miserable “the real treasure is the friends we made along the way” ass ending! Talk about being anticlimactic — not even flight 370 crashed this hard! One moment you are finally (after 100+ pages, mind you 🙂) reading some horror element that comes way too abruptly to have any real effect, and the very next, you’re plunged into a whole bunch of crap where nothing happens other than an unending monologue about a murderous childhood, and an apology of horror films as if this is debate club. Because that’s a book! 😃
And congratulations, you are the valedictorian of clown school if you for one second believe there will be something to do with miso soup! Nope, it is just Japan. Let’s see if it makes more sense when put like this: “Frank” wishes he could have had miso soup with Kenji, but it’s alright, because Japan is a miso soup in which he now floats like a vegetable. Yeah no, still dumb as shit. I wish someone had poured boiling hot miso soup into my eyes so I wouldn’t have been able to read this utter crap of a book, but that’s life for you. We win some, we lose most. Here, the losses include far too many brain cells, I’m afraid.
There are several culprits.
The first, obviously, is the plot. There are three crime scenes in this book, and only one is “on-screen”. The only massacre readers get to witness falls comically short, for the reason that there is in fact an inexplicably super-natural hypnosis going on. Not only does this give the killer a convenient advantage and remove the tension of a chase, it also eliminates any exposition of fear and horror on the victims’ part. This unrealistic plot convenience is not an isolated incident either. Despite the book incessantly yapping about the author’s “cultural analysis” (though it’s impossible to call something that shallow as such) and unabashedly info-dumping, not once do we get any explanation as to how someone who had five bodies under his belt by the age of 12 could ever see the light of day again, let alone fly internationally with no fuss whatsoever. And as “Frank” info-dumps about his childhood, we get yet more cringy exaggeration that was clearly intended to be horrifying but instead makes it feel as if the book was written by a child — like how a very small child manages to bite his mother’s arm so hard and deep that it gushes blood into his mouth. In what universe?? You may be thinking, “Oh come on, you have to suspend your disbelief, this is fictional, and on top, a horror story.” Except serial killers are not supernatural horror, even when the author for whatever stupid, godforsaken reason chooses to involve “black magic” — oh yeah, there’s also that! How could I forget?! A boy, not even 12 yet, is incarcerated at a mental hospital, where he meets people who teach him black magic and how to cut throats without causing arterial spraying. Yeah. Yeah. We’re supposed to believe that. And maybe, just maybe, if black magic actually played any part in the book, this could’ve been forgivable. But no, we only get supernaturally powerful hypnosis, and that all glossed over (or even performed “off-screen” yet again) despite the book taking any semblance of an opportunity to go on and on and on and on about all sorts of irrelevant minutiae. The only things omitted from the book are the things that are vital to the plot 🙃 We will get info-dumped when it absolutely is not necessary to learn anything about the main characters’ childhoods, but oh no, we will not witness anything essential!
Speaking of all the torturous yapping, the way Ryū Murakami absolutely murders his own book (which is the only real horrifying thing going on for this allegedly horror book) is to repeat everything, every unimportant detail, every juvenile thought, at least thrice. You just read exactly what everyone did? Yeah here, read it again. And just to be sure, come on, read it again. And because Ryū Murakami is convinced you are the dumbest fucker to have ever plagued God’s green earth, read also the very mid breakdown of the few scenes, actions, dialogues that could have had some symbolic value. But no, you think it’s done? Haha, funny. We’re not. Here’s five more pages on that exact same thing. You don’t like that? Too fucking bad, this is all you’re getting up until the miserable “the real treasure is the friends we made along the way” ass ending! Talk about being anticlimactic — not even flight 370 crashed this hard! One moment you are finally (after 100+ pages, mind you 🙂) reading some horror element that comes way too abruptly to have any real effect, and the very next, you’re plunged into a whole bunch of crap where nothing happens other than an unending monologue about a murderous childhood, and an apology of horror films as if this is debate club. Because that’s a book! 😃
And congratulations, you are the valedictorian of clown school if you for one second believe there will be something to do with miso soup! Nope, it is just Japan. Let’s see if it makes more sense when put like this: “Frank” wishes he could have had miso soup with Kenji, but it’s alright, because Japan is a miso soup in which he now floats like a vegetable. Yeah no, still dumb as shit. I wish someone had poured boiling hot miso soup into my eyes so I wouldn’t have been able to read this utter crap of a book, but that’s life for you. We win some, we lose most. Here, the losses include far too many brain cells, I’m afraid.
Garlic & the Vampire by Bree Paulsen
funny
hopeful
lighthearted
relaxing
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? N/A
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? N/A
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.0
Garlic and the Vampire had been on my list of books to find at whatever cost, the moment I saw the beautiful cover art for the second book, Garlic and the Witch.
It’s a short, adorable graphic novel about an anxiety-ridden, insanely cute garlic who is sent by the other veggies to confront a vampire. Of course, this being intended for quite young readers, there is nothing to be scared of, and everyone is a friend to be made. While the storytelling was not my favourite, what with the ending being too abrupt, I truly enjoyed the humour and above all, the drawings.
It’s not easy to produce a graphic novel that is both visually appealing and accomplished. The colouring is stunning, with rich but not jarring tones. The characters are obviously adorable, but above all, I was mesmerised by how incredibly beautifully movement was delivered! It’s rare for me to see that.
I’d recommend this to every reader as long as they don’t expect a literary masterpiece. It’s sweet, and provides a fun reading time!
It’s a short, adorable graphic novel about an anxiety-ridden, insanely cute garlic who is sent by the other veggies to confront a vampire. Of course, this being intended for quite young readers, there is nothing to be scared of, and everyone is a friend to be made. While the storytelling was not my favourite, what with the ending being too abrupt, I truly enjoyed the humour and above all, the drawings.
It’s not easy to produce a graphic novel that is both visually appealing and accomplished. The colouring is stunning, with rich but not jarring tones. The characters are obviously adorable, but above all, I was mesmerised by how incredibly beautifully movement was delivered! It’s rare for me to see that.
I’d recommend this to every reader as long as they don’t expect a literary masterpiece. It’s sweet, and provides a fun reading time!
The Temple of the Golden Pavilion by Yukio Mishima
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? N/A
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? N/A
- Flaws of characters a main focus? N/A
1.0
I sometimes wonder what would happen if I didn’t read Yukio Mishima’s fascist manifesto, Sun and Steel. Because his works are imbued with his fascist ideals, but seeing so many decent Mishima fans, I keep wondering — would I have picked up on them?
Either way, I can’t go back in time to un-read it, so it seems Mishima will remain forever tainted for me. I have unfortunately bought three more of his books, and yet a fourth of his stories is included in a collection I have, so my pure hate relationship with him isn’t over. I just regret buying The Temple of the Golden Pavilion upon recommendation by a book-friend, saying I’d like it more than The Sailor who Fell from Grace with the Sea. Did I? Apparently yes, if we consider that was a 0.25/5 for me and this a 1/5. Certainly not a worthy improvement by any means, and I do genuinely feel bad about the money I spent on Mishima’s works. More than un-reading Sun and Steel, I’d want to go back in time to un-buy all of his works.
The first 60 pages were excruciating to read, and just when I was convinced the book would flow from then on, the clubfooted man’s unending monologue brought back that impossible-to-push-through quality. It was a profoundly infuriating experience also because it betrayed Mishima’s total inability to write a single different narratorial voice. You couldn’t tell a single character apart, because not once does he bother to change and adapt their voice. So yes, Mishima is just a shitty author beyond the limits of my personal vendetta too. Because also: for an unending, drivelling, repetitive book that is supposedly about beauty, it says nothing at all. It wouldn’t even fill 5 pages if you were to take out the repetition! And if you were expecting this book to be about the main character’s obsession with the temple, HA HA, no! It’s just a chronicle of his life. Don’t let blurbs and reviews dupe you into believing Mishima had an interesting idea.
I wish it were possible to die a thousand deaths. I would have loved delivering Mishima the remaining 999, not only for being a scummy person, but also for being such a horrible writer. I genuinely felt my blood pressure rise, my jaw lock and tremble, tears of frustration creep into my eyes when the book kept going on and not ending.
Either way, I can’t go back in time to un-read it, so it seems Mishima will remain forever tainted for me. I have unfortunately bought three more of his books, and yet a fourth of his stories is included in a collection I have, so my pure hate relationship with him isn’t over. I just regret buying The Temple of the Golden Pavilion upon recommendation by a book-friend, saying I’d like it more than The Sailor who Fell from Grace with the Sea. Did I? Apparently yes, if we consider that was a 0.25/5 for me and this a 1/5. Certainly not a worthy improvement by any means, and I do genuinely feel bad about the money I spent on Mishima’s works. More than un-reading Sun and Steel, I’d want to go back in time to un-buy all of his works.
The first 60 pages were excruciating to read, and just when I was convinced the book would flow from then on, the clubfooted man’s unending monologue brought back that impossible-to-push-through quality. It was a profoundly infuriating experience also because it betrayed Mishima’s total inability to write a single different narratorial voice. You couldn’t tell a single character apart, because not once does he bother to change and adapt their voice. So yes, Mishima is just a shitty author beyond the limits of my personal vendetta too. Because also: for an unending, drivelling, repetitive book that is supposedly about beauty, it says nothing at all. It wouldn’t even fill 5 pages if you were to take out the repetition! And if you were expecting this book to be about the main character’s obsession with the temple, HA HA, no! It’s just a chronicle of his life. Don’t let blurbs and reviews dupe you into believing Mishima had an interesting idea.
I wish it were possible to die a thousand deaths. I would have loved delivering Mishima the remaining 999, not only for being a scummy person, but also for being such a horrible writer. I genuinely felt my blood pressure rise, my jaw lock and tremble, tears of frustration creep into my eyes when the book kept going on and not ending.
The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches by Matsuo Bashō
informative
inspiring
reflective
slow-paced
3.0
Of all the books that turn out to be massive disappointments, the relatively mild disappointment I had with The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches might just be the one to crush my soul the hardest. That is because last year I read Bashō’s haikus, and I ended up crying at the face of their beauty. I saved this book to be the star of another “January in Japan,” but I couldn’t find that same magic here.
And it comes down to translation. First of all, I have a lot of respect for Nobuyuki Yuasa’s love and care for his work. His introduction is packed full with knowledge and a vast selection of poetry, and what he undertook was a tremendous work: at a time Google did not exist, he made sure to include so many notes, this could serve as an academic source material. That is something I always appreciate, but most of the notes were not important at all, and they break up the flow of the original work by Bashō so much that you as the reader cannot immerse yourself in it. And on top, while I understand Yuasa’s reasoning, his four-line translations do not have the same effect as three-line haikus — worse yet, going solely off these English translations, I can easily see ways to make them into three-liners!
As Yuasa mentions in the introduction, Bashō’s prose pales in favour of the haiku in his earlier work. But as they both mature, the prose is able to stand for its own, as well as support the haikus’ context, strengthening their double layered nature. While reading these accounts, I couldn’t help but notice how Bashō had the same restlessness to go back to travelling as Jack Kerouac did in On the Road, further solidifying that impulse, that desire to go as a universal human condition.
And it comes down to translation. First of all, I have a lot of respect for Nobuyuki Yuasa’s love and care for his work. His introduction is packed full with knowledge and a vast selection of poetry, and what he undertook was a tremendous work: at a time Google did not exist, he made sure to include so many notes, this could serve as an academic source material. That is something I always appreciate, but most of the notes were not important at all, and they break up the flow of the original work by Bashō so much that you as the reader cannot immerse yourself in it. And on top, while I understand Yuasa’s reasoning, his four-line translations do not have the same effect as three-line haikus — worse yet, going solely off these English translations, I can easily see ways to make them into three-liners!
As Yuasa mentions in the introduction, Bashō’s prose pales in favour of the haiku in his earlier work. But as they both mature, the prose is able to stand for its own, as well as support the haikus’ context, strengthening their double layered nature. While reading these accounts, I couldn’t help but notice how Bashō had the same restlessness to go back to travelling as Jack Kerouac did in On the Road, further solidifying that impulse, that desire to go as a universal human condition.
House of the Sleeping Beauties and Other Stories by Yasunari Kawabata
dark
sad
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? N/A
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? N/A
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
2.0
This small collection of three stories was my first ever Yasunari Kawabata, and I’m saddened to say had I not already stocked on a lot of his books, I wouldn’t have gone out looking for more. But this review is difficult for another reason: when all is said and done, my mostly negative experience comes down less to concrete issues with the stories, and more to the overall feelings of quasi-boredom or annoyance they evoked in me. Granted, I read this at a very chemically low point in my life, so who knows if the effect would have been different under better circumstances!
The first of the bunch, House of the Sleeping Beauties, keenly creates senses, a sharp quiet, and an ethereal, liminal setting. With a stream of consciousness approach, as well as much rumination on memory, violence, and the contrast between female purity and male ugliness, it feels like nothing could ruin this story. Yet repetition tries and achieves that, and the description of the girls’ bodies becomes tiring fast. Maybe for that reason, maybe as a fault of the writing, the ending lacks the emotional impact it should’ve had.
One Arm is a much, much worse offender in the boredom department. I could not find anything to like about this, to be honest. Other than it continuing the themes of sleep and violence against women, I can’t see a reason for it to be included in a collection of Kawabata’s works.
For me the best of the bunch was the last story, Of Birds and Beasts. The cruelty against animals did make it a difficult read, but it was the strongest when it comes to impact. The story’s preoccupation with death and violence was all too apparent; and the theme of sleep does crop up.
I’d say these are overall to be read for their ruminations, like a philosophical work, rather than as fiction.
The first of the bunch, House of the Sleeping Beauties, keenly creates senses, a sharp quiet, and an ethereal, liminal setting. With a stream of consciousness approach, as well as much rumination on memory, violence, and the contrast between female purity and male ugliness, it feels like nothing could ruin this story. Yet repetition tries and achieves that, and the description of the girls’ bodies becomes tiring fast. Maybe for that reason, maybe as a fault of the writing, the ending lacks the emotional impact it should’ve had.
One Arm is a much, much worse offender in the boredom department. I could not find anything to like about this, to be honest. Other than it continuing the themes of sleep and violence against women, I can’t see a reason for it to be included in a collection of Kawabata’s works.
For me the best of the bunch was the last story, Of Birds and Beasts. The cruelty against animals did make it a difficult read, but it was the strongest when it comes to impact. The story’s preoccupation with death and violence was all too apparent; and the theme of sleep does crop up.
I’d say these are overall to be read for their ruminations, like a philosophical work, rather than as fiction.
Once and Forever: The Tales of Kenji Miyazawa by Kenji Miyazawa
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? N/A
- Loveable characters? N/A
- Diverse cast of characters? N/A
- Flaws of characters a main focus? N/A
1.0
To preface, being my first ever NYRB, this held a special place in my heart. My expectations were only heightened by the amazing feedback from book friends and John Bester’s foreword full of so much love. And while the adorable little drawings had my heart through the entirety of the book, I can’t say the same for the stories.
The quality is very hit and miss. Kenji Miyazawa might be a much better writer in his original Japanese, but there’s neither enough character nor substance to land them in translation. Sure, a few are great, some are alright, but the bad ones are plainly cruel when not criminally boring.
Perhaps Bester does set Miyazawa up for failure, because immediately with the first story his allegation that there are no real villains crumbles. Needless cruelty and straight out evil in fact crop up far too many times through these stories, and they’re always profoundly disgusting.
Likewise, while Bester’s right that there’s constant motion in Miyazawa’s tales, he’s wrong that there’s also a feeling of open space. I find Miyazawa fails to do latter to the point where the stories can feel claustrophobic despite being set in open spaces. The constant motion does not help this feeling of confinement, as it gets tiring.
There are a few stories I’d liken to folktales, which I’m usually a huge fan of. Of the ones present in this collection, I liked some, but the rest did absolutely nothing for me.
A lot of the stories here are plagued with the going-nowhere disease, when they aren’t being vilely cruel. As a result, the majority feel well below average in quality. A few of the stories have a Ghibli sort of DNA, but they are far and few in between.
My overall experience with Miyazawa was, unfortunately, piss poor. I really wouldn’t recommend these stories to anyone who isn’t a cat murdering psychopath.
The quality is very hit and miss. Kenji Miyazawa might be a much better writer in his original Japanese, but there’s neither enough character nor substance to land them in translation. Sure, a few are great, some are alright, but the bad ones are plainly cruel when not criminally boring.
Perhaps Bester does set Miyazawa up for failure, because immediately with the first story his allegation that there are no real villains crumbles. Needless cruelty and straight out evil in fact crop up far too many times through these stories, and they’re always profoundly disgusting.
Likewise, while Bester’s right that there’s constant motion in Miyazawa’s tales, he’s wrong that there’s also a feeling of open space. I find Miyazawa fails to do latter to the point where the stories can feel claustrophobic despite being set in open spaces. The constant motion does not help this feeling of confinement, as it gets tiring.
There are a few stories I’d liken to folktales, which I’m usually a huge fan of. Of the ones present in this collection, I liked some, but the rest did absolutely nothing for me.
A lot of the stories here are plagued with the going-nowhere disease, when they aren’t being vilely cruel. As a result, the majority feel well below average in quality. A few of the stories have a Ghibli sort of DNA, but they are far and few in between.
My overall experience with Miyazawa was, unfortunately, piss poor. I really wouldn’t recommend these stories to anyone who isn’t a cat murdering psychopath.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Animal death and Animal cruelty
Beast in the Shadows by Edogawa Rampo
dark
emotional
mysterious
tense
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? N/A
- Loveable characters? N/A
- Diverse cast of characters? N/A
- Flaws of characters a main focus? N/A
4.0
Beast in the Shadows is a true rollercoaster: it begins reminiscent of Poe, but soon takes on its own expression; it starts off slow, but picks up and turns very compelling, but then it’s bogged down as the narrator goes about “solving” the case, but picks up yet again with the twist… It’s hard to pin down just how you feel about it, other than that it is wonderfully enjoyable! I was even creeped out at times, and did like the open ending which I thought added more dimension to the story. A perfectly atmospheric noir!
I’m already looking forward to Penguin releasing more of Edogawa Rampo’s books.
I’m already looking forward to Penguin releasing more of Edogawa Rampo’s books.
The Life of a Stupid Man by Ryūnosuke Akutagawa
dark
emotional
sad
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? N/A
- Strong character development? N/A
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? N/A
- Flaws of characters a main focus? N/A
5.0
What a book! “Small but mighty” has possibly never been more apt. This had me rushing to buy a full-sized Akutagawa story collection. Read it, and you too will immediately see why he’s such a lauded writer — you might even, like me, feel he’s not given enough credit.
There are three titles in this tiny book, short but no less impactful for it. They’re all imbued with incredible, lyrical beauty.
The first of these is In a Bamboo Grove, a series of wildly differing witness statements about a dead man, a missing woman, and a captured man. The truth of what happened is elusive, but it’s violent through and through. Akutagawa’s description of such a beautiful setting for such horrible events is the sort of contrast that really strikes you. There is a supernatural element to this that establishes a connection to folktales, but rest assured, this a darkly funny and truly original story.
The other two included in this mini volume are autobiographical pieces, and take a sudden, much more somber turn after the previous story. As I read them, I couldn’t help but think back to Bashō’s haikus, in the way there’s so little text but somehow so much contained within, and just how beautiful the writing is.
Death Register is exactly what it says it is. Written with incredible precision and clarity, it’s highly emotional, but in a strangely tranquil way. The sobriety of tone when dealing with such an emotionally tumultuous matter as the losses of family members is once again deeply striking.
The Life of a Stupid Man is a collection of quietly powerful fragments, of snippets from his life, of brilliant observations of the moments we often overlook. It reminded me heavily of Pessoa’s The Book of Disquiet in not just form but even more so in tone. What differs the two is that The Life of a Stupid Man is woven with the inheritance from a great literary tradition: that quality I previously referred to in the precision of haikus. While reading these fragments, time seems to be arrested, leaving you alone with your heartbeat, with your breath cut short in a gasp of admiration; only you and Akutagawa’s words exist. I did cry a few times — that’s what great beauty does to you!
There are three titles in this tiny book, short but no less impactful for it. They’re all imbued with incredible, lyrical beauty.
The first of these is In a Bamboo Grove, a series of wildly differing witness statements about a dead man, a missing woman, and a captured man. The truth of what happened is elusive, but it’s violent through and through. Akutagawa’s description of such a beautiful setting for such horrible events is the sort of contrast that really strikes you. There is a supernatural element to this that establishes a connection to folktales, but rest assured, this a darkly funny and truly original story.
The other two included in this mini volume are autobiographical pieces, and take a sudden, much more somber turn after the previous story. As I read them, I couldn’t help but think back to Bashō’s haikus, in the way there’s so little text but somehow so much contained within, and just how beautiful the writing is.
Death Register is exactly what it says it is. Written with incredible precision and clarity, it’s highly emotional, but in a strangely tranquil way. The sobriety of tone when dealing with such an emotionally tumultuous matter as the losses of family members is once again deeply striking.
The Life of a Stupid Man is a collection of quietly powerful fragments, of snippets from his life, of brilliant observations of the moments we often overlook. It reminded me heavily of Pessoa’s The Book of Disquiet in not just form but even more so in tone. What differs the two is that The Life of a Stupid Man is woven with the inheritance from a great literary tradition: that quality I previously referred to in the precision of haikus. While reading these fragments, time seems to be arrested, leaving you alone with your heartbeat, with your breath cut short in a gasp of admiration; only you and Akutagawa’s words exist. I did cry a few times — that’s what great beauty does to you!
Three Japanese Short Stories by Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, Kafū Nagai, Koji Uno
lighthearted
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? N/A
- Strong character development? N/A
- Loveable characters? N/A
- Diverse cast of characters? N/A
- Flaws of characters a main focus? N/A
4.0
I know why I have this book — I collected the mini Modern set. What I can’t tell is why I read it, because I have the big Japanese story collection these were taken from. I want to save a deeper approach for when I read and review that, so I’ll keep this short.
Behind the Prison by Kafū Nagai was well written alright, but to me it offered nothing else that’s special and memorable.
Closet LLB by Kōji Uno was a huge leap from the previous story. I’d categorise this as the OG rot girl summer — and it was worryingly relatable. It did not, however, turn dark as I thought it would.
The last story by Akutagawa, General Kim, was a testament to that unique quality a Great Writer has. It’s hard to pinpoint what it is about this sort of prose, but it immediately sets itself apart and above all others. The tone was impeccable, and I loved the supernatural elements. Definitely a must-read!
Behind the Prison by Kafū Nagai was well written alright, but to me it offered nothing else that’s special and memorable.
Closet LLB by Kōji Uno was a huge leap from the previous story. I’d categorise this as the OG rot girl summer — and it was worryingly relatable. It did not, however, turn dark as I thought it would.
The last story by Akutagawa, General Kim, was a testament to that unique quality a Great Writer has. It’s hard to pinpoint what it is about this sort of prose, but it immediately sets itself apart and above all others. The tone was impeccable, and I loved the supernatural elements. Definitely a must-read!
Backlight by Kanji Hanawa
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? N/A
- Flaws of characters a main focus? N/A
0.25
I ended up reading this by pure chance, when I forgot to bring a book and had to find myself an ebook. Clearly, I regret that…
The initial excitement of having found not just a new author but also a whole new press quickly wore off.
When a 7 year old is lost in the mountains, a group of psychologists is called to aid in search efforts. While they talk, think, and hypothesise over the situation (as well as Western vs Japanese culture) the boy is found.
This premise should be right up my alley, but it wasn’t. For one, it felt more like a comical analysis of a situation through fairytales, and a commentary on cultural differences than an actual piece of fiction. Again, this could still work for me, but I found myself unengaged and bored, and I think that comes down to the quality of the translation.
Normally when I really dislike a book as much, I have more to say. But Hanawa seems to have been a sweet person, and a lauded writer, so I think this review more than suffices. While writing these last sentences, I saw there’s another Hanawa story translated by Meredith McKinney this time, and I might give that a chance to see definitively if it’s a translation issue or not.
The initial excitement of having found not just a new author but also a whole new press quickly wore off.
When a 7 year old is lost in the mountains, a group of psychologists is called to aid in search efforts. While they talk, think, and hypothesise over the situation (as well as Western vs Japanese culture) the boy is found.
This premise should be right up my alley, but it wasn’t. For one, it felt more like a comical analysis of a situation through fairytales, and a commentary on cultural differences than an actual piece of fiction. Again, this could still work for me, but I found myself unengaged and bored, and I think that comes down to the quality of the translation.
Normally when I really dislike a book as much, I have more to say. But Hanawa seems to have been a sweet person, and a lauded writer, so I think this review more than suffices. While writing these last sentences, I saw there’s another Hanawa story translated by Meredith McKinney this time, and I might give that a chance to see definitively if it’s a translation issue or not.