short stories – findingtimetowrite

#JanuaryinJapan: Short Stories from an Old Favourite

Murakami Ryū: Tokyo Decadence: 15 Stories. Transl. Ralph McCarthy, Kurodahan Press, 2016

I have a dark, twisted heart and mind when it comes to reading, so when I first started studying Japanese I much preferred the darker subject matter of Murakami Ryū rather than the more whimsical and fantastical concoctions of Murakami Haruki. Over the years, however, I read more of Haruki, possibly because he has been extensively translated into English (and I lost my ability to read in Japanese). But Haruki has disappointed me with his last few novels, which feel overlong, unedited and trying to repeat his past successes and obsessions.

So for my latest January in Japan reading adventure, I turned eagerly to my old love, Ryū, and to this collection of short stories, drawn from multiple of his short story collections over several decades. I bought this on Kindle many years ago, on the recommendation of fellow Japanophile Tony Malone, but only got around to reading it now. It’s conceived as a sort of ‘Best Of’ album, and a great introduction to this author. Another way to discover his work is through the many film adaptations of his stories, including one entitled Tokyo Decadence from 1992 (which only features some of the stories in the ‘Topaz’ section of the book below), but be prepared for a lot of shlocky violence and even horror in the films he directed or inspired (I’m thinking particularly of Audition and Piercing).

The stories are taken from five collections (each one with thematically-linked stories) and they seem to show a development in the author’s style, but also a continuity when it comes to subject matter. These are all jaded, sad, some might even say pathetic characters, and some of them resort to desperate means to prove to themselves that they are not losers -Jean Rhys on steroids, one might say.

The first four stories date from 1986 and are very loosely grouped around admiration for the Hiroshima Carps baseball team and their star player in the 1980s Yoshikiko Takahashi. They range from the amusing, relatively low stakes chain of favours in ‘Whenever I Sit at a Bar Drinking Like This’ and a case of fake identity and debt in ‘I am a Novelist’, to the higher stakes of a divorced dad cross-dressing at a gay club in Roppongi in ‘It All Started Just About a Year and a Half Ago’, and then finally culminating in a frenzied bloody attack in ‘Each Time I Read Your Confession’. A very clever selection of stories by the translator, to show the escalation of despair, of feeling lost and lonely, but also with a lot more humour than I remember from his novels from that period.

The second set of stories are scenes from the life of a call-girl in the collection Topaz from 1988, a woman who still dreams about romance and a man to look after her in spite of the many brutal, horrible S&M encounters she has with various clients and being invariably disappointed by her lovers. These are the ones that reminded me most of Jean Rhys – or, perhaps in more modern terms, Kathy Acker.

The third sequence dates from 1995 and features a young man who’s just moved to Tokyo from a port town in Kyushu, supposedly to make it big as a band with his childhood friends. But his heart isn’t really in it, and he drifts along from one odd relationship to the next, sinking into a life of drugs, booze and watching films, not really imagining a future other than that he never wants to really work. This is the one most similar in tone and subject matter to his hugely successful debut novel Almost Transparent Blue. This is still the mindset of youth who refuse to conform to Japanese society’s strict expectations and rules, and we readers might feel exasperated by their lack of ambition. But the next set of stories rather cleverly shows us that even those who did exactly what society expected of them are left adrift.

The protagonists in the stories from the collection Swan from 1997 are mostly middle-aged and outwardly successful as film-makers or ad executives, but in reality, they are flailing around to find purpose and connection in their lives. These stories are all centred around Cuban music and dance, and a woman named Mieko who doesn’t quite seem to have the courage to follow her dreams, but the backdrop is economic recession – businesses are going bankrupt, people are being laid off, AIDS is an all-too-real danger while having sex. This sheds a much gentler light, however, on that difficult bust after boom decade in Japan than the much darker novel In the Miso Soup.

The final story ‘At the Airport’ is from 2003 features yet another call-girl, who is waiting for a client at the airport, who has promised to take her to Hokkaido to explore a possible change of career. As the listens to repeated ‘final calls’ for her flight at the boarding gate, both she and the reader start to wonder if it is too late for her, if one can ever really start afresh and leave the past behind. Although set in the same world as the Topaz series, this one relies less on shock moments. This is a more mature, wistful Murakami that I have not really had a chance to encounter before.

It’s always interesting to reread old favourites and see if they’ve withstood the test of time. I think the reason I much preferred Ryū (and Dazai and Mishima) was in part youthful rebellion, to oppose the authors we were told we should revere more at the time, like Kawabata and Tanizaki, but partly also because I thought Ryū did a much better job of portraying the less salubrious side of Japanese society, away from the kimonos and cherry-blossons and the countless pretty cranes (folded paper ones and real ones).

He was the first author I read who gave voice to marginalised members of society, the misfits and downtrodden, those who were left behind by the economic boom in post-war Japan, the parts of society that were swept under the carpet at the time. Of course his works no longer seem as original and daring because so many others have followed in his wake, imitating his subject matter and even his style. Additionally, the economic stagnation that Japan has been mired in since the 1990s (and the rise of social media that can offer unfiltered views of such stories) has made this underbelly of society far more visible and perhaps even trendy. But it was not just economic stagnation – the 1990s and early 2000s held a number of shocks for Japan, revealing horrible truths that could no longer be relegated to the fringes: the sarin gas attack in the Tokyo metro in 1995, the Kobe-Hanshin earthquake that same year (revealing the infrastructure was not as earthquake-proof as was generally believed), the Kobe child murders by a 14 year old boy in 1997, the hostess club abduction and murder case of Lucie Blackman, the camp for homeless people in Ueno Park. The marginalised became mainstream, and this is reflected in many of the Japanese films and books of the 21st century. Transgression became the norm, rather than the exception.

Yet, although the subject matter might no longer feel as courageous and rebellious as it has become mainstream, I was glad to read this collection, which gives me a good overview of Murakami Ryū’s career and stays clear of his most gruesome ideas, which are perhaps best left behind in my more insouciant youthful days.

#JanuaryInJapan: Two Short Story Collections

After the rather disappointing novellas that relied more on shock factor rather than genuinely good writing, and after some lighter fare, it was a relief to turn to reliable modern classics of Japanese literature. These short story collections are anything but cosy, but the writing is assured and aslant, the descriptions of graphic violence are few and far between (or muted at least), yet there is a sinister undercurrent and often a lot of sadness cleverly hidden in these stories. This is certainly not comfortable reading, but it’s not ‘shock for shock’s sake’, and it will fill you with uneasy thoughts and deeper reflections long after you finish reading them.

Mishima Yukio: Death in Midsummer, transl. by Edward Seidensticker, Donald Keene, Geoffrey W. Sargent and Ivan Morris, Penguin Modern Classics, 2024

This collection was originally published by New Directions in 1966, hence the translations all being by the Boys’ Club of Big Hitters in Translation of post-war Japan. The stories were selected by Mishima himself as most suitable for translation – and he was no slouch when it came to knowledge of Western culture, but also very keen to promote Japanese culture, so he was probably playing to an audience somewhat.

However you might feel about Mishima as a nationalist, no one can deny that he writes beautifully. My Japanese professor used to describe Mishima’s style as ‘kira kira’, which means sparkly, shiny – in other words, an ornate, highly-polished style like a gem, and this comes across much better in translation than the more threadbare, minimalist style of other Japanese authors. Mishima is not afraid to delve deep into the minds of some of his characters – the grieving mother in the title story, the struggle between carnal desires and the wish to attain nirvana of ‘The Priest of Shiga Temple and His Love’, Masuyama’s yearning for the unattainable love of the kabuki performer in ‘Onnagata’. But he is also great at withholding information, at allowing us to observe and draw our own conclusions, at giving us imperfect hints at the full story, for example the young couple having to count every yen in the story entitled ‘Three Million Yen’ – and what work they might be engaging in to earn a bit of extra cash.

One of the longest and most unusual stories in the collection – and a huge foreshadowing for Mishima’s own demise – is the one entitled ‘Patriotism’, which describes in exhaustive detail the preparations for seppuku (aka harakiri) of a young lieutenant in the Japanese Army following the February 26 Incident in 1936. Torn between his sense of duty towards the Emperor and a sense of loyalty towards his rebellious comrades, he decides to die ‘with honour’ and the story begins with a factual summary of the death of him and his recently-wed wife, with whom he was very much in love. He’d asked his wife to assist him in his own suicide, but she chose to follow him in death, since to her the husband embodies a great sunlike principle – just as the Emperor might have done to his subjects. The way she says goodbye to her trinkets and prepares for death is very Buddhist in its renunciation of all earthly attachments:

She was ready and happy to be hurtled along to her destruction in that gleaming sun chariot – but now, for these few moments of solitude, she allowed herself to luxuriate in this innocent attachment to trifles. The time when she had genuinely loved these things, however, was long past. Now she merely love the memory of having once loved them, and their place in her heart had been filled by more intense passions, by a more frenzied happiness…

This is, alas, the story in which we are given a detailed account of just how difficult and painful it is to commit seppuku, therefore possibly making the lieutenant’s determination to succeed in it all the more admirable (from the author’s point of view). This story marked a turning point both in Mishima’s literary output and political beliefs. He was a descendant of a samurai family, but had been very receptive to Western culture until 1960. Around that time, however, there were extensive protests against the Peace Treaty the US had imposed upon Japan and the continued presence of American army bases in the country. After a period of extensive Westernisation of culture and society in Japan – possibly too much too soon – the pendulum was starting to swing back to an appreciation of traditional culture. The eternal swing back and forth throughout Japanese history between periods of closed country and sudden, almost excessive opening and modernisation.

This dichotomy yet also parallelism between East and West, traditional and modern, is clearly reflected in ‘Dōjōji’, described as a modern No play, but which reminds me of Eugene Ionesco or Samuel Beckett in its surrealism and the clipped absurdity of some of its dialogue. And, while Mishima’s love for and extensive knowledge of the traditions of Kabuki theatre are revealed in the story Onnagata, there are clear echoes there of Ancient Greek tragedy:

The grand emotions of classical tragedy – emotions quite unrelated to our mundane lives – may seem to be guided, at least nominally, by historical facts, but in reality they belong to no period. They are the emotions appropriate to a stylized, grotesquely tragic world, luridly colored in the manner of a late woodblock print. Grief that goes beyond human bounds, superhuman passions, searing love, terrifying joy, the brief cries of people trapped by circumstances too tragic for human beings to endure…

Kono Taeko: Toddler-Hunting and Other Stories, transl. Lucy North & Lucy Lower, Wedienfeld & Nicolson, 2021

Most of the stories in this collection were translated by Lucy North and originally published in one volume in 1996, and then a further story was translated by Lucy Lower and the volume was reissued in 2021. Kono is not as well-known abroad as Mishima, Kobo Abe, Endo Shusaku or other (largely male) writers of her generation, yet in her home country she was widely respected for her daring subject matter and unsettling style. She won pretty much every literary prize going in Japan, and was one of the first women writers on the judging panel of the Akutagawa Literary Prize. I can’t help wondering what she would have thought of the two more recent winners of that prize that I discussed in my previous January in Japan post. But it’s undeniable that she is in some way their predecessor in the 1960s and 70s, addressing subjects that many regarded as taboo back then (and possibly still do).

What Kono does so well is lead us up the garden path. The stories start out, with very few exceptions, quite innocuously: a couple waiting for their guests and switching off the TV, children waiting for their mother to dress them, a woman trying to fall back asleep, an audience gathering for a theatrical performance. The sentences and the setting are deliberately bland, and it’s only as the story progresses that we begin to realise that something is off-kilter, something is not being said, there is something bubbling up, ready to explode and destroy that calm, neat surface. More than any writer I’ve read, Kono shows us the gap between honne and tatemae – the inner nature and the public face – and what she reveals is often shocking in the starkness of its contrast.

And even when the subject matter is made clear from the outset, as in the title story ‘Toddler-Hunting’, which states baldly ‘Hayashi Akiko couldn’t abide little girls between three and ten years old – she detested them more than any other kind of human being’, it seems initially eccentric but then builds up with layer upon layer of disturbing insights into Akiko’s psyche. She does find little boys of that age very appealing, unnervingly so, and she finds any excuse to buy outfits for her colleagues’ little sons and to get them to try them on, and then she starts dreaming of a man thrashing a little boy – and we discover she engages in very rough sex with her partner. What seemed cold but essentially harmless turns hot and harmful, but in such a well-paced, gradual way that we feel we as readers are treading on eggshells, almost afraid to discover those perverse desires within ourselves.

Another story that takes a sudden swerve from the banal everyday into dangerous territory is ‘Night Journey’, in which two befriended couples begin to admit to themselves some dangerous desires from which there is no turning back… and yet nothing concrete happens in the story, it is all hinted at, all about wishful thinking rather than actions, yet we doubt any of the four people described there will ever be quite the same. There is a similar ambivalent situation in the story ‘Theater’, with Hideko, in an emotionless marriage to a husband who is safely away working in Germany, and the relationship she develops with an odd couple she encounters at the opera. In ‘Ant Swarm’, we have another explicit example of an S&M relationship, within a couple who think they might have accidentally conceived a child and that this will spoil all of their plans for going to the States to pursue further studies and advance their career – once again, the apparently sensible career woman suddenly veers off-piste and pursues her wildest desires to the limit.

It’s worth bearing in mind that Japan was just opening up in the 1950s and 60s to the writings of Sade and Sacher-Masoch, or the Kinsey Reports. Following the years of military dictatorship, when women were praised for and forced into the roles of good wives and wise mothers, the outrageous and subversive desires and imaginings of women are a way of rebelling against social expectations. But I feel that Kono is presenting most of these women as problematic rather than empowered and triumphant – women who have been raised in such a male-dominated society and have suffered such a loss of self-esteem that the only way they know how to rebel is by demeaning and endangering themselves. This is why I feel there is a direct line connecting Kono’s work with the work of Kanehara Hitomi or Suzuki Izumi, but Kono seems to have such tight control of her style and subject matter that every little slip of the tongue (or pen) matters and leaves you reeling.

Little Glimpses of Reading

There just aren’t enough hours in the week to review all the books I read, and some of them I don’t even feel compelled to review. This weekend I also had two DNF experiences one after the other! However, the ones below fall into the interesting category, so I will share some snippets from them to give you flavour.

Jane Campbell: Cat Brushing

This collection of short stories has a viewpoint that is seldom seen in Western literature: the desires of older women. In the title story, the narrator finds similarities with the once-beautiful, now elderly cat that she brushes, reflecting upon her own sensuous past and how both of them are now unnecessary and ‘on sufferance’ in her son’s household. Several of the stories reflecting on past loves and missed opportunities, but some are also about making the most of the present, even if you are in a care home.

‘All the old people here have exercises recommended for them by our inhouse staff.’

A great wave of hatred surged through me. Was I, having struggled over long years through the heartbreak of lovers deserting me, good fortune eluding me, children disappearing, money slipping from my grasp, of having survived all the random acts of cruelty that life can inflict upon an ordinary person, was I to be denied the luxury of wallowing in a bit of giref and sadness and melancholy if I wanted to?

Aristophanes: Lysistrata, transl. Patric Dickinson

A classic Ancient Greek comedy, and an anti-war pamphlet too. The women of Athens and Sparta (and other Greek cities) resolve to deny their men any sexual fulfillment until they put an end to the civil war ravaging the country. All the more remarkable for the portrayal of militant women, when we know that their status in Ancient Greece was very low, they were not considered full citizens. Amazing also, how current the political statements still are!

Like the raw fleece in the wash tub, first

you must cleanse the city of dirt.

As we beat out the muck and pick out the burrs,

you must pluck out the pace-seekers, sack the spongers

out of their sinecure offices, rip off their heads –

then the common skein of good sense:

blend the good aliens, the allies, the strangers,

even the debtors, into one ball;

consider the colonies scattered threads,

pick up their ends and gather them quick,

make one magnificent bobbin and weave

a garment of government fit for the people!

Javier Marias: Your Face Tomorrow, 2: Dance and Dream, transl. Margaret Jull Costa.

I will almost certainly review the entire trilogy once I finish it, but I’m taking my time to savour reading this. There are so many times that I nod along in recognition when I read those hypnotic, spiralling sentences. He really does get me, this author, and it would be a shame not share at least a fragment of one of those endless sentences as I go along.

No, you are never what you are – not entirely, not exactly – when you’re alone and living abroad and ceaselessly speaking a language not your own or not your first language… the word ‘absence’ loses meaning, depth and force with each hour that passes and that you pass far away from home – and then the expression ‘far away’ also loses meaning, depth and force – the time of our absence accumulates gradually like a strange parenthesis that does not really count and which shelters us only as it might commutable, insubstantial ghosts, and for which, thereferoe, we need render an account to no one, not even to ourselves…

Surrealism from Estonia and Romania

Kristiina Ehin: Walker on Water, trans. Ilmar Lehtpere, Unnamed Press, 2014.

There is not much literature from Estonia available in translation, unfortunately, so when the London Reads the World Book Club was looking for an Estonian book for May, we only managed to find two, of which one was out of print. However, I think we chose well, since Kristiina Ehin is contemporary and comes highly recommended by Estonian readers. She is a poet, translator, singer and songwriter, and this preference for the brief form shows clearly in this collection of very short stories – linked flash fiction – or novella-in-flash, I suppose you could call it. She also has an interest (and M.A.) in folklore, and this too is obvious in her work. Well-worn tropes are inverted; the plain storytelling style becomes playful or deadpan; an intimate chat between friends around a campfire veers off into the fantastical and impossible.

The title story ‘Walker on Water’ is a typical example of this. It starts off fairly innocuously with the narrator stating that she had to see off the female competition to win over the man who became her husband. ‘There’s nothing more exciting than desiring a man who doesn’t even notice you.’

However, once this prize morsel has been won, you need to be able to keep him and the narrator describes how she starts to indulge in her favourite pastime, walking on water, which she compares to marriage itself: ‘It’s a game with little danger when everything is just starting out and the little waves lick your shoreline with pleasure.’ But is it enough to keep afloat on the water when your intelligent and educated husband literally opens the hatch at the back of his head when he comes back from work and takes his brains out?

There were so many instances of droll humour or satirical asides, which remind me of Finnish authors I have read previously. In Ehin’s case, these revolve around the often absurd lengths to which people will go in their relationships with the other sex: the woman whose husbands were all called Jaan and all have their arms bitten off, the narrator who hires a Love Organizer to keep her love from freezing at the edges but ends up having to do everything herself, a Surrealist’s Daughter who turns into a dragon and ultimately has two pairs of three-headed twins… On and on it goes, from one absurd story to the next, from one metaphor taken to extremes to another hyperbole, usually with a feminist twist that brought a wry smile to my face.

I wasn’t quite sure that I understood all of the metaphors or cultural references, but I did enjoy the retelling of Snow White from the point of view of the apple painted by a Princely Paintbrush, or the collection of the (possibly?) souls of former husbands portrayed as dried apricots, or the Sheherezade style of storytelling, blending myths and family tales, in ‘Lena of the Drifting Isle’.

Urmuz: Pagini Bizare (Bizarre Pages), MondoRo Press, 2013.

Urmuz is the pen name of one of the most unusual yet influential writers Romania has ever had. Born Ionescu Demetrescu-Buzău in 1883 in Curtea de Arges, he spent most of his schoolyears in Bucharest, studied law and became a county court judge and, after the war (in which he fought largely in Moldova), he became a registrar at the High Court in Bucharest. He started writing his proto-Dadaist pre-surrealist stories around 1913, but didn’t publish anything until1922. Hypersensitive to most things, leading the life of a recluse, he ended his life with a gunshot and was found behind the famous buffet (now restaurant) on Kiseleff Boulevard on the 23rd of November 1923.

His contemporaries were shocked by his apparently motiveless death, and the poet Tudor Arghezi (the first to recognise his talent and offer to publish him) always reproached himself afterwards for not being closer to him and preventing this tragedy. Yet, despite his brief literary career and the meagre output (he left behind at most fifty pages of writing), he had a huge influence on the Romanian literature that followed. While some compare him to the tragic absurdity of Kafka, others emphasise his comic tour de force a la Lewis Carroll or his links to folklore, but to me he is far more clearly linked to Tristan Tzara and the Dadaists, and produced a whole vein of direct descendants in Romanian literature like Eugen Ionescu, Leonid Dimov, Mircea Cartarescu.

In the preface, one of the leading literary critics of Romanian literature, Nicolae Manolescu, says: ‘Can you imagine the reaction of readers in 1922 – used to epic novels like Ion – when they were confronted with the opening lines of the mini-novel The Funnel and Stamate?’ Indeed, a startling contrast to everything else that was being written at the time.

A well-ventilated apartment, made up of three main rooms, not forgetting a terrace with a glass partition and a doorbell.
A table with no legs in the middle of the room, based on intense calculations and probability, upon which there is a vase containing the eternal essence of the ‘thing in itself’, a clove of garlic, a figurine of a (Transylvanian) priest holding a grammar book and 20 pennies change… The rest is unimportant.
However, you should be aware that this room, forever darkened, has no doors or windows and only communicates with the outside world via a tube, through which you occasionally see smoke or, at night, the seven hemispheres of Ptolemy, or, during the day, two humans descending from the apes alongside a finite row of dried okra, reflecting the endless and useless Auto-Cosmos…

The Dadaists were also playing around with language and concepts at that time, but they had the additional benefit of combining their poetry with decoupage and other artistic methods, making their poems very visual (you can see an example by Tristan Tzara here). Urmuz has to bring all of the playfulness and experimentation, the sense of joy and freedom, but also the futility, into his prose using nothing but words.

There is, however, one poem by Urmuz that schoolchildren have always loved – a mock-fable nonsense rhyme, which reminds me of Edward Lear or Dr Seuss, and is delicious to roll about on the tongue, although hell to translate.

If I have whetted your appetite for this highly unusual writer, you can find an online translation of two of his stories here, while Dalkey Archive is bringing out his collected prose in 2024. Once again, Alistair Ian Blyth has got there before me with the translation! 😦 However, I think I might go ahead and translate one of his pieces anyway (maybe The Fuchsiad), just for fun and practice and the sheer love of it.

A slice of Romanian literature: Bogdan Suceavă

There is something very familiar to me in the language, landscape and characters described by Bogdan Suceavă. Unsurprising, really, because he is of the same generation as me, growing up under Communism but then having the opportunity to go and study abroad in the 1990s. He got his Ph.D. in Mathematics at Michigan State University (coincidentally, one that I was seriously considering for a Ph.D. in Cultural Anthropology at the time) and has been teaching the subject at university level in California ever since. Nevertheless, alongside his passion for geometry, he has always been equally diligent in writing and publishing, initially prize-winning short stories and novellas, but then moving on to novels. A few of his works have been translated into English by Alistair Ian Blythe. For a good dose of traditional Romanian atmosphere, I would suggest Miruna, a Tale. Or, if you want to see just how tricky a time the early 1990s were in Romania after the fall of Communism, you might want to try Coming from an Off-Key Time. He is also a contributor to the anthology of Bucharest Tales, published by New Europe Writers in 2010.

I have to admit prior acquaintance with his work: I edited the translation of one of his novellas for the online multilingual literary journal Respiro back in the early 2000s, so I have signed copies of two of his short story collections, including the one I am currently reviewing: Bunicul s-a întors la franceză (Grandpa Goes Back to French).

You may wonder at the strangeness of that title, but the short story that lends its name to the entire anthology is about a grandfather who is trying to remember his youthful, mostly bookish knowledge of the French language. It is a very moving tale of a grandson trying to get his eighty-year-old grandfather to eat and take his medication, when all the old man wants to do is write his memoirs and get them published, so that the present generation will know the truth about Romania after the Second World War and the anti-Communist resistance movement. He sends off his lengthy manuscript to a newspaper editor, who somewhat jokingly tells him he’s be better off writing all that in French. The grandfather takes this seriously and rewrites the entire volume, trying to assuage his guilt at not having followed his former army comrades into the mountains. An incredibly sad scene takes place in the park, when the grandfather proclaims loudly, in a mix of Romanian and French, that ‘everyone needs to hear the truth’, and his grandson has to disillusion him:

‘There’s nothing new, Grandpa, in all of this. They know it all. And they don’t care. It’s the past, nobody cares about it anymore.’

This feels very true and is in stark contrast to the endless tomes written about the Second World War in Britain. I remember an author telling me that nearly every middle-aged man she met at the London Library was writing a book about WW2. It makes me wonder if it is better to live in a country that tries to bury its past or one that tries to glorify it. Of course, one approach does not exclude the other…

Other stories bring in a dose of humour, such as The Story of Al Waqbah, in which the narrator tells us about his cousin Matei, whose childhood naughtiness persists even in adulthood, when he becomes a respected mechanic in the tank division of the Romanian army and gets sent to the (First) Gulf War. A mix of British, American, French, Polish and other forces all get involved in Matei’s complicated plan to build a home-made distillery to make fig brandy in a country where alcohol is prohibited (with predictably bad consequences).

One of the stories takes place on an American university campus, but it feels to me like the author is at his best when he sticks to the time and places he knows in his bones. When Night Falls in Bucharest borders on the melodramatic, but gives an interesting insight into the compromises you had to be prepared to make as a second-tier Communist party bureaucrat aspiring to become a minister under Ceaușescu. The Disintegration of the Fatherland into Elementary Particles looks at more recent Romanian society (future, actually, 2006, when in fact the book came out in 2003) and the more violent, disorderly ways in which people might channel their discontent and anger at the prevailing corruption and dysfunctional political system.

Not all of the stories have a political slant. The author is having fun experimenting with genres and styles. He has an excellent ear for dialogue and an ease of switching from a more lyrical to a factual style. There is a pseudo-scientific and historical style in Greetings from Prague. Your World: Rock Music and Guava Perfume is the story of a lifelong friendship between a boy and a girl, that somehow never quite turned into love, a universal tale of missed opportunities and miscommunication, a yearning for what might have been. There is a short, experimental bit of prose about a man walking the streets while desperately trying to solve a Rubik’s cube.

An interesting collection of short stories of an author still testing the ground and honing his craft. One or two of them will certainly stay with me, and I am now curious to read his novels. Next time I go to Romania (if I go to Romania any time soon), I will search out more of his work.

Tongue in cheek question: Should I add him to the list of Bogdans that I seem to be translating? (Bogdan Teodorescu and Bogdan Hrib are the first, but there might be more to follow.)

#6Degrees of Separation: October 2021 starts with one of my favourite writers

Not only is the monthly Six Degrees of Bookish Separation one of my favourite literary memes, as hosted by Kate at Books Are My Favourite and Best, but this month it starts with a famous short story by one of my very favourite writers! Shirley Jackson’s ‘The Lottery’ starts out jauntily enough as the description of a traditional event in small-town America but gets more and more disturbing and sinister in every paragraph. When it was published in The New Yorker on June 26th, 1948, it received the highest volume of readers’ letters that the magazine has ever experienced.

Some were baffled, some were outraged, a few thoroughly enjoyed it… and my first link the chain features a controversial story that also appeared in The New Yorker and went viral. Except that this story was published in 2017 and therefore the uproar was mostly on social media rather than via readers’ letters. I am talking, of course, about ‘Cat Person’ by Kristen Roupenian. The other thing it has in common with Jackson’s notorious short story is that it starts off as the description of a mediocre/bad date such as we have all known, but becomes more and more disconcerting as you read it (and perhaps even more uncomfortable in retrospect).

How can I resist a cat as my second link? Which takes me to a masterpiece of observation of unreliable humans and a rapidly changing society through feline eyes, in Natsume Soseki’s I Am A Cat. Yes, it’s a chunky book – and you may be surprised to hear that Soseki intended it to be a short story at first, but was convinced to add more and more stories to it, as it appeared serialised in literary journal Hototogisu in 1905/06.

Rather a leap in my next link: Soseki studied for two years in England, at UCL, and was utterly miserable most of the time. So I thought I would turn to someone else’s more joyful (and satirical) journey around England, namely Karel Capek’s Letters from England, which convey a bemused, not entirely uncritical but on the whole admirative glance at England in the 1920s.

An unimaginative link next: Capek’s book was published in 1925 and so I looked for other books published that year. I ignored two firm favourites, The Great Gatsby and The Trial, and instead turned to Anita Loos and her best-known comic novel Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Nowadays the book is better known for its film adaptation starring Marilyn Monroe as the blonde and Jane Russell as the brunette. At the time of publication, however, Anita Loos was hugely popular as a scriptwriter, playwright, novelist and actress.

Who can ever forget this iconic scene of ‘Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend’

She provides the link to the next book, because she wrote the stage adaptation for Colette’s novella Gigi in 1951. It made a star of Audrey Hepburn, although in the screen version she was replaced by Leslie Caron.

For my final link, I use Audrey Hepburn again. In the film version of the musical My Fair Lady, she in turn replaced Julie Andrews, who starred in the stage version. The musical is of course based on George Bernard Shaw’s play Pygmalion, which is far more of an indictment on the English class system (and accents) than is apparent in the (admittedly, rather lovely) musical.

My little chain has perhaps been less well travelled this time, but it has included a short story, a novella, non-fiction and a play, so I tried to travel through genres this time. Where will your six links take you this month?

January in Japan: Falling Down the Rabbit Hole

Osamu Dazai: Self Portraits: Tales from the life of Japan’s great decadent romantic, transl. and introduced by Ralph F. McCarthy, Kodansha International, 1991.

Once I reconnected with my old flame, Dazai Osamu, it was difficult to stop at just the new translation of his final novel Ningen Shikkaku. One of my book blogging friends, whom you might know as @Kaggsy59 from Twitter, mentioned that she had a collection of his autobiographical stories in roughly chronological order, with sympathetic introductions to each story by McCarthy. Somehow, I did not manage to get my hands on this book back in the 1990s and it is now out of print and prohibitively expensive. So maybe I shouldn’t recommend it to you. But if you can get hold of it, it is probably the best introduction to Dazai’s work, as there is great variety and much more humour here than in some of his better-known work.

As the translator says, some of the stories are clearly more fictional than others, and there is a tendency to exaggerate for effect. Let’s not forget that most of these were stories for magazines, published during the writer’s lifetime, and that he had to produce work to earn a living. He injects humour into situations, often at his own expense, but also has the ability to turn from comedy to tragedy within the same paragraph, even the same sentence. This style – and the more domestic stories – remind me of Shirley Jackson’s family-inspired stories collected in Life Among the Savages and Raising Demons. Except that Shirley Jackson does not mention directly her fury at her husband’s affairs, or her agoraphobia or her many health problems, while Dazai has no such qualms.

Dazai at around the time of the first double suicide attempt.

In his quite experimental story written in dialogue form ‘Mesu ni tsuite’ (translated here as Female, elsewhere as Of Women), we initially seem to witnessing one of those games that old friends might play late at night, after a bout of drinking. The narrator and his friend vie with each other to describe the ideal woman, in terms of looks, occupation, clothes, behaviour and speech. This may come across as crude masculine banter, but they then go on to create the scenario of a spa break. Yet even in this best of all possible imaginary worlds, things don’t go according to plan and the romantic dinner for two becomes increasingly awkward. The man seems to avoid intimacy by pretending he’s got a writing deadline, but then spends endless minutes copying out the Iroha poem repeatedly (used as a kind of alphabet ordering for the Japanese syllabary). It seems that even in his imagination, the narrator cannot rid himself of his fears and complexes. It all seems quite funny in a very ‘cringe comedy’ sort of way (which makes Dazai so modern, to my mind), but then both the friend and the reader realise, to their horror, that the story takes a sinister turn (apologies for spoiling the ending for you, but then, if you’ve read my previous post about Dazai’s life, you will know that only one ending is possible):

‘I heard a sound like water flowing behind me. It was only a faint sound, but a chill ran down my spine. The woman had quietly turned over in bed.’
‘What happened?’
‘”Let’s die,” I said. She too…’
‘Stop right there. You’re not just making this up.’
He was right. The following afternoon the woman and I attempted suicide. She was neither a geisha nor a painter. She was a girl from a poor background who’d been a maid in my home. She was killed simply because she turned over in bed. I didn’t die. Seven years have passed and I’m still alive.

Dazai does not come out well from most of these stories, as you might expect, but he can also be quite cutting about the people closest to him for comedic effect. For example, in the story ‘Trains’ he feels sorry for a country girl who has been spurned by one of his friends and impulsively decides to say goodbye to her as she leaves from Tokyo Ueno station. He takes his wife along for moral support, believing that she might have more social skills than him. As you might expect, however, everyone just hangs around, looking and sounding very awkward.

Three minutes or so still remained before departure time. I couldn’t stand it… nothing is more confounding than those last three minutes. You’ve said all there is to say and can do nothing but gaze helplessly at each other. And in this case it was even worse, because I hadn’t been able to come up with a single thing to say in the first place. If my wife had been a bit more competent, it wouldn’t have been so bad, but look at her: standing there with her mouth clamped shut and a sullen look on her face.

Yet each story has layers: beneath the comedy there is something much more serious. While they are at the station, they also see ‘an ashen-faced fellow leaning out a window of the third class coach, bidding a faltering farewell’ and we realise that it is a young man being mobilised during the war. In ‘Female’, reference is made to a failed coup in 1936 (the so-called February 26 Incident) to reinstate the power and glory of the Emperor – an attempt that Mishima admired and Dazai completely despised.

Dazai was emphatically against the war, but, given his arrest because of his involvement with the Communist Party, he is careful not to upset the censors and only mentions war in passing in his work of the 1930s. His downbeat, fatalistic stories were increasingly frowned upon by the censors, so he reverted mostly to retellings of Japanese folk tale or older stories during the war.

Yet, for all his appreciation of traditional Japanese literature and history, he stubbornly refused to accept the established narratives or clichés. In a very funny scene in his story ‘One Hundred Views of Mount Fuji’, he and one elderly woman are the only ones in a bus full of tourists who steadfastly refuse to crane their necks to catch a glimpse of the mythical mountain, but look in the opposite direction.

Perhaps Dazai is at his best when he focuses on others rather than on himself. He has a great eye for detail and proves a good observer of people and situations. There is much warmth and humanity in his descriptions, even when he almost churlishly tries to undermine his own kind impulses, as if afraid that he might be accused of sentimentalism. The tenderness and hope of spring and marital love in a story like ‘A Promise Fulfilled’. The way he keeps assuring readers that he hates dogs, yet takes in a stray puppy in the comical tale ‘Canis familiaris’. Believing a rose-seller is an imposter and yet nevertheless buying the roses from her in ‘Thinking of Zenso’. The affection and admiration with which he describes his older brothers, who all had some literary talent (even though he clearly had a troubled relationship with them). In ‘Two Little Words’ he helps an old man fill in the withdrawal slip from his saving passbook and finds out that it is in the name of his daughter who died in the air raids. When sent by journalists for a photo feature with the vagrants in Ueno Park, he is able to relate to them and treat them like real human beings, observing much more within a few minutes of walking there than any of the reporters who accompany him. Perhaps most touchingly, in ‘Seascape with Figures in Gold’, he feels guilty about the way he used to treat one of the family maids, yet years later, when she comes to visit him with her family, she remembers things very differently and he ends up being almost envious of her peaceful, serene life.

In one of the last stories he ever wrote, ‘Cherries’, we are participating in an evening meal with his family and Dazai says something that reminds us of the main character in Ningen Shikkaku:

When I’m at home, I’m forever making jokes. Let’s say it’s a case of needing to wear Dante’s mask of merriment precisely because there are so many things that trigger the anguish in the heart… Whenever I’m with people, no matter how great my mental or physical suffering, I try desperately to create a happy atmosphere. It’s only after parting with company that I stagger away exhausted to think about money and morality and suicide.

I don’t know if I’ve managed to convey the flavour of this author without making you feel he is too self-indulgent. Mishima described him as ‘an invalid who does not wish to recover’ and therefore does not qualify as a true invalid. The thing with Dazai is that you cannot hate or criticise him more than he does himself. You have the feeling that it was not a pose. He handled the fame that came along after the publication of The Setting Sun just as badly as he had handled poverty and obscurity in his youth. He was ever the one to rebel against rules, and the tyranny of ‘should’, decrying what he perceived to be the hypocrisy and opportunism of the Japanese society during and after the war. His is a manifesto of constantly inspecting, never accepting at face value, opposing any facile answers: ‘I’m a libertine – buraiha [the so-called Decadent School in Japanese arts and literature]. I rebel against constraints. I jeer at the opportunists.’ He refused to join any clique and could be quite spiteful about what he perceived as arrogance in others. But for those who were truly poor, downtrodden, outcast or sad, he had endless compassion. He was always able to forgive weaknesses in others (probably because of all the weaknesses he could see in himself).

In the academic study I was reading in parallel with this, The Suicidal Narrative in Modern Japan: The Case of Dazai Osamu, the scholar Alan Wolfe argues that Dazai does not really fall into the romantic suicidal hero vein. Dazai is ‘simultaneously victim and victimizer’, and his texts resist our interpretation of him. Dazai becomes slippery, impossible to pin down to a single interpretation, teasing readers from beyond the grave. He constantly casts doubt on the veracity and consistency of the narrator – a technique that Mishima also uses in The Temple of the Golden Pavilion. Dazai would never be content with a final narrative, a theory set in stone, any effort to enclose thought once and for all. Everything is fluid, and the real meaning of things escapes us, or is only briefly glimpsed in the corner of one’s eye.

I can live with that.

January in Japan: Yuko Tsushima’s Short Stories

A pleasure to take part once more in Meredith’s Japanese Literature Challenge 14. My favourite way to start the year, with January in Japan.

Tsushima Yūko: The Shooting Gallery and other stories. (transl. Geraldine Harcourt), The Women’s Press, 1988.

It’s a puzzle to me why Yūko Tsushima is not better known to the English-speaking world. During her life she won pretty much all of the major Japanese literary prizes. She did not produce a huge body of work, but wrote steadily throughout her life. Quite a bit of her earlier work was translated into English in the 1970s and 80s by respected New Zealand translator Geraldine Harcourt, who had a personal connection with the author. Tsushima also fitted in with the feminist preoccupations of the Western world during that period (the time of Spare Rib magazine and Virago Press) – although perhaps she did not fit in well with the narrative of the Japanese economic miracle and boom years. She was not ‘exotic’ enough, not ‘other’ enough. She was not writing about cherry blossoms and chrysanthemums (although she does write about a chrysanthemum beetle). Her protagonists were usually single mothers, struggling to bring up children in a society that was often belittling and marginalising them. Perhaps too relatable the world over… although with additional pressures in Japan.

I am hopeful, however, that after the success in recent years of her novel Territory of Light (which was reissued in 2018 in the Penguin Classics edition), the rest of her work might be discovered. Like her father, she does not have an enormous range in terms of subject matter or stylistics, but what she does write is magnificent, just like her father’s work.

I do realise that perhaps I shouldn’t be allowing her father to enter the conversation, really, even if he is Dazai Osamu, a writer greatly revered in Japan (perhaps less well known abroad, because he too presents too gloomy a view of Japan and of mankind more generally). I certainly don’t think they can or should be compared to each other. After all, Tsushima was just a baby when her father died. However, her father’s highly publicised double suicide with his lover and abandonment of his family clearly had an enormous impact on Tsushima’s worldview and on her work. (She confronts this situation and imagines her mother’s reaction in a short story called ‘The Watery Realm’ which is not part of this collection, but has also been translated by Geraldine Harcourt).

So when Tsushima explores the life of single mothers, she is not only mining her own experiences as a single mother, but also memories of herself growing up in a single parent household. She was bemused by the ‘feminist’ label that often got stuck on her, and it’s perhaps the age-old truth that if a man writes about the very heart of loneliness and lack of communication, even (or perhaps especially) within a family, they are perceived as addressing the great universals of human experience, while if a woman does it, then it’s a domestic theme or less important women’s fiction.

Set against a backdrop of harsh realism, of dirty dishes piled high in the sink, cramped flats, whining children, fluorescent lights with insect corpses piled high, Tsushima’s protagonists, most of them mothers, but some of them young girls or boys, try to escape into their dreamworlds. But reality often comes chasing after them, crushing their carefully constructed alternative worlds.

In the title story, an exhausted mother tries to find the magical seaside memories of her youth once more and recreate them for her sons.

The thought of the sea had come to her suddenly the night before… She’d made up her mind to take the two children to the beach. There she had been, hemmed in by the cracker crumbs, plastic blocks, empty juice cans, underwear and socks that littered the room, the sinkful of dirty dishes, the washing hanging from the ceiling, the sound of the TV, the younger child’s crying, her own voice talking at the office, and the weariness – a weariness that turned her body to a desiccated old sponge. Unable to lie down, she was sitting having a cigarette with her elbows resting on the table when a transparent blue gleam streaked before her eyes… It could only be the sea. It had completely slipped her mind.

Needless to say, once they get to the sea, it does not live up to their expectations at all. No cool, beautiful blue – the sea is grey, the light dull, the beach full of concrete and rubbish and dog poo, the children complain that they are tired, they have to pee, they can’t walk any longer… She closes her eyes and dreams of some sort of release:

… one day my back will sprout a pair of lance-shaped wings which will begin to beat, my body will visibly expand, and when the metamorphosis is complete I’ll be a dragon that ascends spiralling to the heavens. I’ll leave everyone watching astounded on the earth below as I soar aloft. my golden scales gleaming. Refreshed.

In another moving story ‘The Silent Traders’, a walled park in the middle of the city becomes a place for abandoning unwanted animals and develops its own microcosm, becoming a fantasy land for the lonely children growing up around it. People thoughtlessly or casually hurting and neglecting animals is a recurrent motif – undoubtedly a parallel with the way they marginalise and overlook certain people. Another theme that crops up time and again is that of feeling invisible. In ‘Clearing the Thickets’ we seamlessly move from a young woman relinquishing her lover to a woman in a bright red dress and wondering if she is visible at all, to a scene where the wayward daughter returns home to help with clearing the weeds in the family garden and, seemingly out of sight and mind of her mother and older sister, she overhears them viciously gossiping about her.

Yūko Tsushima author photo from The New Yorker.

The mother-daughter relationship in particular is often fraught with problems. All of the characters are flawed, and yet we cannot help but empathise with the yearning of many of them for escape from the everyday worries, their need to be loved and understood and appreciated. But to what extent do they weaken themselves by relying too much on others to be rescued? And when they understand that rescue is not forthcoming, how can they not despair and fnd the strength to carry on? It’s this wonderful rich complexity of each character, this understanding of the contradictory impulses in every one of us, that I find so satisfying in Tsushima’s work.

These are stories to read carefully and savour every word. They move effortlessly between the bland everyday and daydreams or even pure fantasy. I hesitate to call them magical realism, but there is often a strong reliance on symbolism. Stories that will make you uneasy, that will lodge themselves into your mind and never quite leave you.

You can read an excellent review of this story collection here, and thank you also to this blogger for referring me to this very revealing autobiographical essay by Tsushima published in the Chicago Tribune. I will leave you to read it for yourselves, but this paragraph in particular describes her subject matter perfectly:

I have never written about happy women. This is not because I like unhappiness, but it comes from my firm belief that misfortune is not always bad. Happiness can spoil people. Happy people can lose sensitivity, and as a result they become poor in terms of human qualities.

#WITMonth and #20BooksofSummer: Teffi

Teffi: Subtly Worded, transl. Anne Marie Jackson et al. (Pushkin Press, 2014)

Imagine Dorothy Parker combined with Marina Hyde, with a dash of Chekhov and a sprinkling of Anna Seghers – and you might have something like Teffi, a Russian journalist and short story writer from the early 20th century. Had she lived today, she would no doubt be a star of social media, an influencer with her pithy, succinct and witty comments. She was a star twice over in her lifetime – first in her homeland (admired first by the Tsar and then by Lenin), then in exile in Paris in the 1920s, had perfumes and chocolates named after her, was the toast of political and cultural circles in several European cities. Towards the end of her life and after her death, her star waned somewhat, but she has now been rediscovered both in Russia and abroad.

Subtly Worded is a selection of her literary work from 1910 to 1952 and, although Teffi was celebrated primarily as a humorist and satirist during her lifetime, this collection certainly proves that she was not a one trick pony. Some of her shortest early pieces are slight, laugh-out-loud funny and hugely relatable – such as ‘Will-Power’ (about a man whose doctor has told him to give up the booze). There is gentle mockery of vanity in ‘The Hat’, in which a young woman believes she is irresistable to her poet boyfriend (‘who had not yet written any poems, he was still trying to come up with a pen name, but in spite of this he was very poetic and mysterious’), but only when she is wearing her new hat… and then she realises she was wearing the wrong one all along. The stories told from the point of view of children (‘The Lifeless Beast’ or ‘Jealousy’) ring very true and are made up of equal parts of innocence, humour and heartbreak. She does not sentimentalise childhood, nor old age. Her characters are infuriating as well as touching.

The sting in her humour becomes more noticeable during and just after the Russian Revolution. These stories may have just one string to their bow, so they feel more like satirical newspaper articles, but they certainly hit the mark. She observes how ideals get derailed by famine in ‘Petrograd Monologue’, narrated by someone determined not to mention ‘food’, yet thinking of nothing else. She recounts the indiscriminate persecution of the cultural elites and suspicion of education in ‘One Day in the Future’ – an exaggeration that was not too far from the truth in the Soviet Union, Eastern Europe in the 1950s and during the Chinese Cultural Revolution.

On his return journey he overtook several carts loaded with firewood. Their drivers had the most improbable backgrounds: one had been a tenor with the Mariinsky Theatre, another an academician, the third a staff captain, the fourth a gynaecologist. […] At home, he had an unpleasant surprise. In the dining room his ten-year-old son was studiously learning the alphabet. Terenty tore the book out of the boy’s hands and ripped it to shreds.

‘You mangy pup!’ he yelled. ‘So you thought you’d start reading books, eh? Learn the sciences, eh? So you wanna end up a goatherd?’

Yet she is equally scathing about the airs of misplaced superiority and nostalgia for the glories of the past of Russian aristocracy. She lampoons them in ‘One of Us’, in which Mrs Kudakina, wife of a general, laments the disappearance of les nôtres (people like us) and their replacement by les autres (people not at all like us), yet proves incapable of truly distinguishing between the two.

Teffi is a keen political observer, and the description of her encounter with Rasputin is eye-opening. He tries his hypnotic powers on her, and, although she doesn’t succumb to them, she can understand how others might. However, she is careful to distinguish between personal charisma and the charisma of power. All those ‘sucking up’ to Rasputin for the hope of political advancement or at least for being spared severe punishment – their behaviour is reprehensible yet what other choice have they got? Teffi seems like a precursor of the Me Too movement when she says:

… there was something in the atmosphere around Rasputin I found deeply revolting. The grovelling, the collective hysteria – and at the same time the machinations of something dark, something very dark and beyond our knowledge. One could get sucked into this filthy mire – and never be able to climb out of it. It was revolting and joyless… The pitiful, distressed face of the young woman who was being thrust so shamelessly by her lawyer husband at a drunken peasant – it was the stuff of nightmares, I was seeing it in my dreams. But he must have had many such women – women about whom he shouted, banging his fist on the table, that ‘they wouldn’t dare’, and they were ‘happy with everything.’

Once in exile, she casts her lucid eyes on the emigrant community and they don’t escape unscathed, as in ‘Que Faire?’, perhaps one of her best-known and most-quoted pieces.

We – les russes, as they call us – live the strangest of lives here, nothing like other people’s. We stick together, for example, not like planets, by mutual attraction, but by a force quite contrary to the laws of physics – mutual repulsion. Every lesrusse hates all the others – hates them just as fervently as the others hate him.

This lack of solidarity in exile has been observed by other ethnic communities – especially when they are escaping from a country in political turmoil, because they are never quite sure on which side their new acquaintance might be (or might have been in the past). Add to that the envy of someone else’s success abroad, a success that would have been inferior to yours if you had still been experiencing the ‘normal’ (i.e. long gone) state of affairs in the ‘motherland’…

This is an impressive collection, showing a full range of emotions – from flighty to serious, from mockery to genuine compassion, from sharp insight to sentimentality. There is depth and sadness here too, a lot of reading between the lines, but also sheer impish humour. Something for everyone in fact – her ‘idol-like’ status becomes more understandable.

This was my 20th book of the #20BooksofSummer challenge and my third review for #WITMonth.

Liliana Colanzi: Our Dead World

This is my most recent #20BooksofSummer read (No. 12 in actual fact), but I am somersaulting over the earlier ones I read and placing it at No. 10, so that I can have at least one review this week for #SpanishLitMonth initiated by Stu Jallen (which is not just literature from Spain but literature in the Spanish language).

Liliana Colanzi is a Bolivian writer, considered one of the most promising young voices in Latin America today, but so far Our Dead World is her only book that has been translated into English (by Jessica Sequeira and published by Dalkey Archive Press). I heard Colanzi speak at the Hay Festival two years ago, as part of the Bogota39 initiative, and bought her book then and there (and of course got it signed). The stories are unusual, surreal, captivating and show a great deal of courage, in the sense of not worrying about making the reader feel comfortable or of fitting under one convenient genre or label.

The first story The Eye, for example, could be described as a more realistic, coming-of-age type story, with a girl in her first year of college struggling with her feelings for a male classmate, who lets her down by buggering off with another girl at the last minute while working on a group project for class. Her mother is deeply religious and traditional, her professor chides her for not being brave enough to think for herself, and she compensates for all of her disappointments by cutting herself. So far, so conventional, you might think, but then the story and the language takes on a surreal turn, as we follow the protagonist into something like a nervous breakdown (or illumination?).

And that is the hallmark of Colanzi’s style: taking the mundane and well-trodden set-ups and then twisting them completely beyond recognition. You sit and read breathlessly and wonder how the author will manage to conclude the story and exit from the impossible situation in which she has placed herself and her characters. Usually, this is done through altered states, which the author is very good at conveying through repetitive, mesmerising language, which is often like watching a film playing at double the speed in someone’s head.

Each story (bar one) has a different but realistic setting – a Bolivian village preparing for a funeral, an East Coast college campus, a Paris hotel, a photographic studio, a house hidden in a sugar-cane plantation. But then a curveball gets thrown into the apparently familiar set-up: a family starts quarreling as they remember past frustrations while having their portrait taken, a meteorite is ready to hit the earth, a mysterious wave-type weather pattern drives students to suicide, a cannibal is on the loose, the corpse at a funeral seems to start breathing, you stumble across a place in the jungle where indigenous slavery still exists. There are hints at secret traumas and a side serving of horror in most of these tales.

The story which is the exception has more of a sci-fi premise: it’s set on Mars. A young woman has joined the colonising workforce on Mars but still yearns for the life and man she loved on Earth. While she and her fellow workers are doomed to either go mad or die of cancer, she becomes obsessed by the idea of life perpetuating itself even in the most hostile of environments.

These are the kind of stories which pack so much into their tiny frame that I’m not sure I’ve completely understood them. I also like the way in which Colanzi alludes to her cultural background but is not limited by it. I want to reread and analyse these stories – but above all, they give me permission to go forth and be bolder and more experimental in my own writing.