Every time I give a Japanese novel a try, I feel like I'm about to throw out I'll never try to do that again.
Have you ever seen silent moments in Japanese films or anime? Like, blue sky and cicadas singing in the background to create an image of summer? Or hydrangeas close-up with raindrops flowing down the flowers? That's what Banana's story is full of - she's constantly describing details and surroundings to convey what situation the heroine was in, what she heard, what she saw, and therefore felt, and therefore remembered. And that's a good thing, because such memorable moments are exactly that what deserves to be written about.
'A cupboard on the left.
A green refrigerator.
A wall with pictures necessary for work.
A bed by the window.
A bottle with coins.
A big parrot.'
However, do such descriptions make up for all the other faults of the book? Nope.
Do other aspects of the book spoil the little positive impression that those meticulous depictions sometimes succeeded to make? Oh yes.
It was all good to read about pink and silver advertising posters hanging down from street lights on the street the heroine was crossing, until it got really boring because there were too many of those 'posters' that were described so precisely it was really meaningless. We all joke about how teachers of literature in Russian schools explain to us what the author was trying to convey by introducing a blue curtain or a big oak into his story, but this is the opposite: those street lights, those voices of children interfering with the phone talk, those faces with dark eyes or faces like sunflower, were all vain, trite, tasteless and unnecessary. They all lead to nothing, and were connected to nothing, and contributed to nothing.
But Banana's of course considered to be a ground-breaker with her bold usage of themes that are supposed to be a taboo. Supposed only, because they are simply thrown into a big pot like whole uncut vegetables, and we never actually learn what they taste like. Because nothing happens. And one cannot feel satiated with only blank pictures trying to create an atmosphere. Well, if you're creating an atmosphere it should at least be worthy of creating. I can understand it when Hugo describes roofs of Paris, but who cares if the posters the heroine saw were pink or orange?
So what do we have inside the soup? The heroine is a girl whose boyfriend committed suicide while translating a novel written by a man who also committed suicide after writing a story about a father who sleeps with his daughter, which is based on his own experience of sleeping with his daughter, and leaving copies of it to his son and daughter who later sleep with each other, too, and look like they are about to commit suicide, too, with the daughter trying to kill the heroine before dying because she didn't want to die alone. Say that again?
Have you ever seen silent moments in Japanese films or anime? Like, blue sky and cicadas singing in the background to create an image of summer? Or hydrangeas close-up with raindrops flowing down the flowers? That's what Banana's story is full of - she's constantly describing details and surroundings to convey what situation the heroine was in, what she heard, what she saw, and therefore felt, and therefore remembered. And that's a good thing, because such memorable moments are exactly that what deserves to be written about.
'A cupboard on the left.
A green refrigerator.
A wall with pictures necessary for work.
A bed by the window.
A bottle with coins.
A big parrot.'
However, do such descriptions make up for all the other faults of the book? Nope.
Do other aspects of the book spoil the little positive impression that those meticulous depictions sometimes succeeded to make? Oh yes.
It was all good to read about pink and silver advertising posters hanging down from street lights on the street the heroine was crossing, until it got really boring because there were too many of those 'posters' that were described so precisely it was really meaningless. We all joke about how teachers of literature in Russian schools explain to us what the author was trying to convey by introducing a blue curtain or a big oak into his story, but this is the opposite: those street lights, those voices of children interfering with the phone talk, those faces with dark eyes or faces like sunflower, were all vain, trite, tasteless and unnecessary. They all lead to nothing, and were connected to nothing, and contributed to nothing.
But Banana's of course considered to be a ground-breaker with her bold usage of themes that are supposed to be a taboo. Supposed only, because they are simply thrown into a big pot like whole uncut vegetables, and we never actually learn what they taste like. Because nothing happens. And one cannot feel satiated with only blank pictures trying to create an atmosphere. Well, if you're creating an atmosphere it should at least be worthy of creating. I can understand it when Hugo describes roofs of Paris, but who cares if the posters the heroine saw were pink or orange?
So what do we have inside the soup? The heroine is a girl whose boyfriend committed suicide while translating a novel written by a man who also committed suicide after writing a story about a father who sleeps with his daughter, which is based on his own experience of sleeping with his daughter, and leaving copies of it to his son and daughter who later sleep with each other, too, and look like they are about to commit suicide, too, with the daughter trying to kill the heroine before dying because she didn't want to die alone. Say that again?
Even those Western novels I've read, like Zweigh's stories or Shaw's Nightwork, that I considered boring when I read them, seem to have more meaning in their contents than this book.
'...endless string of street lights,
multicolored lights of cars,
beeps,
distant barking of dogs,
some noises on the road,
people's voices,
their steps,
the sound of shutters rattling in the wind,
hot air,
asphalt heated during the day,
distant smells of summer.'
So what?
And if you're hoping that dialogues can change the mood of this book then you're wrong. It's not entirely a delirium, but it's a 'stream of consciousness', and that consciousness just fails to make any particular impression or explain what the emotions or thoughts of the characters were. It's not a complete word salad, because sentences make sense (haha), but that's almost on the verge of being an example of schizophasia.
'- Got burnt a little. - Otohiko smiled, and then said: - It must be because lately I have spoken almost to nobody.
- Or maybe because of the fire.
- Or because of the wind.
- Sea makes one reveal his mind and soul.
- It's so nice to talk with you, even about trifles!
- Whatever you speak about, the waves carry away your words.
- It makes you feel free!
- So true. The wine is warm, but tasty.
- I'll put it in the fridge.
- There already is one.
- It's good that I went with you.'
erm...
I guess I'm not cut out to read Japanese fiction at all.
'...endless string of street lights,
multicolored lights of cars,
beeps,
distant barking of dogs,
some noises on the road,
people's voices,
their steps,
the sound of shutters rattling in the wind,
hot air,
asphalt heated during the day,
distant smells of summer.'
So what?
And if you're hoping that dialogues can change the mood of this book then you're wrong. It's not entirely a delirium, but it's a 'stream of consciousness', and that consciousness just fails to make any particular impression or explain what the emotions or thoughts of the characters were. It's not a complete word salad, because sentences make sense (haha), but that's almost on the verge of being an example of schizophasia.
'- Got burnt a little. - Otohiko smiled, and then said: - It must be because lately I have spoken almost to nobody.
- Or maybe because of the fire.
- Or because of the wind.
- Sea makes one reveal his mind and soul.
- It's so nice to talk with you, even about trifles!
- Whatever you speak about, the waves carry away your words.
- It makes you feel free!
- So true. The wine is warm, but tasty.
- I'll put it in the fridge.
- There already is one.
- It's good that I went with you.'
erm...
I guess I'm not cut out to read Japanese fiction at all.
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