Category: novels

Hollow Inside

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There’s an expression in Japanese that I really appreciate: shikata ga nai, which essentially means “what can you do.” Shikata ga nai is the verbal equivalent of a shrug of resignation. Sure, the situation may not be ideal, but shikata ga nai. What can you do.

Asako Otani’s 2023 novella Hollow Inside is about as close to a literary expression of shikata ga nai as you can get. Otani was born in 1990, which makes her a little younger than I am, but I feel like we’re part of the same Millennial generation that came of age right in time for the 2008 global economic recession and then got our feet kicked out from under us by the pandemic. This situation isn’t ideal, obviously. But what can you do.

Hirai, the narrator of Hollow Inside, has recently moved from a small and inconvenient flat into a nicer two-bedroom apartment. She’s able to afford a better place by splitting the rent with her friend Suganuma, who proposed the idea to Hirai because she was tired of her own tiny apartment. Both women are around 40, and neither has any real desire to get married.

Hirai works in the accounting office of a printing company, while Suganuma formerly worked for the consulting division of a company specializing in administration systems. The two women met through their jobs but became friends when they realized that they were both fans of the same idol group, KI Dash. Their social circles narrowed during the pandemic, but their friendship with each other survived.

After working more than twenty years in corporate jobs, neither has enough money to afford a decent apartment in the city. That’s not great, but what can you do. Suganuma confesses to being “desperately lonely” while working from home during the pandemic, and Hirai knows exactly what she means. The pandemic wasn’t great, but again – what can you do.

What they can do, it turns out, is to move in together. Perhaps this isn’t how either of them imagined that their lives would turn out, and perhaps this isn’t what society in general expected of them. Hirai confesses to feeling shy about explaining her situation to her colleagues at work, knowing that two women in their forties sharing a home together isn’t the usual situation. And indeed, when she gets a chance to explain her living arrangements at a work dinner with colleagues, everyone makes polite noises and before swiftly changing the topic of conversation.

Still, Hirai and Suganuma get along well together, and they support one another through the small tragedies of their lives, such the marriage of Suganuma’s favorite idol from KI Dash and Hirai’s disastrous date with a man who wants to induct her into a pyramid scheme. The two women eat out together, cook dinner for each other, take a spur-of-the-moment holiday to the beach, and fall asleep while watching DVDs of KI Dash concerts on an old PlayStation 2.

The title of Hollow Inside comes from Suganuma’s post-pandemic freelance job as a manufacturer of custom figurines memorializing the deceased pets of her clients. She’s set up a 3D printer in a corner of the living room, which also houses a wastebin of defective models. Hirai feels a kinship with these rejected memorial figurines, as she herself feels somewhat hollow during the transition between the life she assumed she’d live and the unmapped territory ahead.

This sense of hollowness isn’t necessarily a bad thing, however. As Hirai explains about a fantasy she occasionally indulges in when she’s stressed out after work… 

I let all the strength drain from my body. I gave myself over to gravity and sharpened all my awareness right up to my fingertips. I lay on the bed not moving an inch. Pretending to be dead. I sometimes did this.

I was dead. Nothing in the world had anything to do with me. I thought about the dead dogs. The dead dogs that had been doted on by their owners. They had left fake bodies in the world as figurines, and their souls were running in the other worlds wagging their tails. My soul joined them frolicking there.

…there’s a certain lightness that allows her to imagine herself as free and unburdened.

There are a range of different readings of Hollow Inside, of course. Some readers might find this novella depressing; but, to me, it’s a breath of fresh air.

In Japan and elsewhere, fewer women are getting married; and, as much as I enjoy the fantasy of romance, the reality of single life as an adult is no less interesting. Hollow Inside captures a moment in the transition of one woman’s life that happens to be representative of a major demographic shift. To me, this novella also serves as an eerily accurate reflection of the economic realities of the 21st century. We might not be able to enjoy the stability and middle-class lifestyles that our parents did, but what can you do. Shikata ga nai.

And you know what? It’s not so bad, actually.

The Tatami Galaxy

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The Tatami Galaxy is a magical realist comedy set in Kyoto in the early 2000s. The author, Tomihiko Morimi, is famous for his over-the-top characters and offbeat urban fantasy, and The Tatami Galaxy takes the reader on a wild ride through a set of parallel universes.

The unnamed narrator is a third-year student at a university in Kyoto. He came to campus, he says, with dreams of pursuing a rose-colored student life full of friends, scholarship, and wholesome extracurricular activities.

This is not how things turned out, unfortunately. After joining a student club that he didn’t quite click with, the narrator develops a friendship with a fellow student named Ozu, a slimy but charming manipulator who drags him into all manner of unsavory plots.

What would happen, the narrator wonders, if he had joined another club? Could he have escaped Ozu’s influence and enjoyed his ideal rose-colored campus life?

The Tatami Galaxy collects four versions of the narrator’s story. At the beginning of each version, the narrator joins a different student club. Though the details are different, the characters remain the same.

The narrator never manages to break his “black thread of fate” with Ozu; but, then again, that’s not really what he wants. After all, what good is a rose-colored campus life without friends?

The Tatami Galaxy is very silly and sweet, and it also feels like a window into what college was like before the pandemic. Remember the world before neoliberal enshittification really started to take hold? Remember when eating out was cheap, drinking was fun, and your life wouldn’t be completely ruined by a few bad grades and stupid mistakes?

As a university professor myself, it’s painful to see how exhausted my students are, and it’s wild to think about how different everything was even ten years ago. The Tatami Galaxy is a perfectly preserved time capsule, and it’s as good of an opportunity as any to remember that college isn’t supposed to be about optimizing your metrics. If you aren’t drunkenly setting off fireworks at a rival student club across a river on a warm spring night, the author argues, you’re wasting your chance at a rose-colored campus life.

I really love Emily Balistrieri’s short “Note from the Translator” at the end of the book, in which she discusses how much fun it was to translate Tomihiko Morimi’s distinctive style of writing and sense of humor. This joy definitely comes through on the page, and Balistrieri’s translation feels remarkably fresh and energetic.   

If you’re interested, the (subtitled) anime version of The Tatami Galaxy is free to watch on YouTube (here). It’s something of a cult classic, and with good reason. The art and animation are unique and creative, and the voice acting is genius. Still, I have to admit that the visual eyestrain is intense. The anime boasts the same high energy and twisted sense of humor as the original novel, but mercifully (for those of us past our student days) the book version is much easier to enjoy at a chill and relaxed pace.  

Strange Buildings

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Strange Buildings, the 2023 follow-up to Uketsu’s smash hit Strange Houses, collects eleven illustrated stories about horror-themed architectural riddles followed by a lengthy exposition that reveals how these mysterious places are connected.

One of my favorite stories is “The Mousetrap House,” in which the wealthy heir to a large construction firm builds a luxurious mansion in order to kill a disabled elderly woman. If he puts a steep stairway next to the bathroom, he reasons, the woman will eventually lose her footing and tumble down the stairs.

When this eventuality fails to come to pass, he bullies his daughter into creating exactly the right set of conditions to make it happen. This horrible story is recounted decades later by the girl’s childhood friend, who was there on the night the old woman finally fell to her death.

I also enjoyed “The Watermill in the Woods,” which is presented as an old travelogue that recounts a curious building in the woods that’s nowhere near water. Its mechanical wheel instead powers the movement of an interior wall, but why would anyone need that?

This question is answered in the story “The House Where It Happened,” in which the frame narrator (who is styled as Uketsu himself) visits the old watermill in its current form as a remodeled modern house. When the village residents illuminate the shadows of the area’s history, the sinister purpose of the watermill becomes clear.

As in Uketsu’s other books, the overarching conspiracy is extremely silly. I don’t consider this a flaw, as there’s a certain sense of satisfaction in how delightfully outlandish the scenario is.

It should probably be said, however, that Uketsu is playing with acute cases of human misery as if they were Lego blocks. If one were to stage a gendered critique of this book, for instance, the ground is fertile. Still, I think it’s probably fair not to expect nuanced character portrayals from the weird architecture guy.

I enjoyed Strange Buildings, and I flew through this book as quickly as I could turn the pages. Jim Rion’s translation is compulsively readable, and I appreciate how Rion’s minor reconfigurations smooth over the “info dump” awkwardness of the original Japanese.

If you’ve never read Uketsu, Strange Buildings is a great introduction to the writer. If you’re already a fan, this is four hundred pages of the same, and it’s fantastic. Uketsu has found his niche, and it gives me joy to know that he’s out in the world being strange and living his best life.

ブラフマンの埋葬

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Yōko Ogawa’s 2004 novel Burafuman no maisō (Brahman’s Funeral) is a story about the lonely caretaker of an isolated artist’s retreat who adopts a forest creature of indeterminate species. Though this short novel features many of the tropes common in bestselling stories of animal companions, it was awarded the Izumi Kyōka Prize for literary fiction that explores the darker side of the human condition.

On the first day of summer, the unnamed caretaker finds a forest creature outside the back kitchen door. The creature is injured, and he doesn’t object when the caretaker picks him up and takes him inside. In fact, the creature almost seems to be asking for help, and his puppylike tameness inspires the caretaker to adopt him as an indoor pet.

The mansion where the narrator lives and works used to belong to the wealthy owner of a publishing company, but it has since been converted into an artist’s retreat. After a conversation with the stonemason who maintains a permanent studio on the grounds, the narrator decides to name the creature Brahman after the Sanskrit word the mason has carved onto a gravestone.

While Brahman recovers, the caretaker keeps the creature in his room. The caretaker’s personal space is stark and empty, but Brahman finds ways to keep himself occupied by opening drawers and gnawing on the coat hangers in the closet. At night, Brahman sleeps on the bed while curled up against the caretaker.

Once Brahman figures out how to operate the door handle, the caretaker begins taking him outside. The scenes in which he describes the meadows and forests surrounding the retreat through Brahman’s eyes are gorgeously written. Brahman delights in the sun and the wind and the grass, and he especially loves the garden pond, swimming and diving to his heart’s content as the caretaker watches.

Though the caretaker seems amiable enough, he seems to have no friends save for the stonemason. Aside from the artists visiting the retreat, the only person the caretaker speaks with is the young woman who works at the small general store outside the train station. Though the caretaker clearly has a crush on her, she’s dating an older man who lives in the city, and all she wants is to move away from the isolated village. The caretaker clearly doesn’t have a chance with her, and his yearning for connection is poignant yet gently pathetic. 

The purpose of contemporary popular pet fiction is to comfort the reader, often by anthropomorphizing the animals in service to the human protagonists. Burafuman no maisō is certainly beautiful and joyous in many places, but Ogawa has little interest in cozy vibes. To me, at least, this is an intensely gothic novel. 

Brahman dies at the end, but hints of death suffuse the entire story. Aside from the artists’ retreat managed by the caretaker, the most notable feature of the town is its sprawling cemetery, which has a strange but poetic history.

Because the mountainside town has a plentiful supply of both stone and stone carvers, people who lived upriver once commissioned its artisans to create coffins for their dead. Stone coffins were difficult to transport, however, and so the remains would be placed in wooden coffins that were sent downstream to be buried in the hillside cemetery. The isolated village thus became the final resting place for the dead who were all but abandoned by the rest of the world, a description that mirrors the position of the caretaker himself.

Ogawa has something of a fetish for sensitive but lonely men, and I have to admit that the caretaker breaks my heart a little. Along with having no name, he also seems to have no family, nor any past at all. What he has instead is an old family portrait photo that he buys from a Sunday antique market in the town square. The traveling merchant gives him an old wooden frame to go with it, so the caretaker hangs the photo in his room, where he sits on the bed and imagines the lives of the long-dead family. The only living joy in the caretaker’s life comes from his interactions with Brahman.

The genre of “cozy pet fiction” is almost always about people. As such, it often treats animals as human, even going so far as to give them human narrative voices so that the reader can better understand the human characters they observe. Burafuman no maisō does the opposite by using its nameless human narrator as a vehicle to document the short life of Brahman.

Though a human reader can never perceive the world in the way that an animal does, Ogawa asks us to sympathize with Brahman through the narrator’s documentation of his umwelt: what he sees and tastes and smells, and how he reacts to the world. To the caretaker, the behavior of other humans makes little sense, but he joyfully devotes himself to chronicling Brahman’s appearance and behavior through a series of annotated lists of observations with titles such as “Brahman’s Tail,” “Brahman’s Meals,” and “Brahman’s Footsteps.”

And finally, through no fault of his own, the caretaker is forced to close his account with a list titled “Brahman’s Funeral.” Through Brahman’s death and subsequent burial in a tiny stone coffin, Ogawa succeeds in making the reader care deeply about a semi-wild animal that was never anthropomorphized in any way. I appreciate the thematic artistry, but it’s nevertheless a difficult ending.

Hikaru Okuizumi (author of The Stones Cry Out) writes in his postscript to the Kodansha paperback edition that Ogawa more than likely started this short novel during a literary festival in the small French town of Fuveau, where she apparently bowed out on a large group dinner to stay alone in her room and write. This makes perfect sense to me, as Okuizumi’s anecdote accurately reflects the tone of the story. Despite Brahman’s death and the caretaker’s loneliness, Burafuman no maisō dwells in the quiet and contemplative corners of the gothic genre, and this short novel feels like a small but meditative retreat.

Tokyo Ueno Station

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Yū Miri’s 2014 novel Tokyo Ueno Station is a compelling portrait of one man’s life and a pointed critique of the inequalities that support the supposed national prosperity championed by the Tokyo Olympics. 

Kazu, an unhoused man living in Ueno Park, was born in the town of Sōma in Fukushima in 1933. In order to support his family, Kazu moved to Tokyo in 1963 as a laborer engaged in the construction of athletic facilities for the 1964 Tokyo Olympics.

Kazu has lived in Tokyo since then, only visiting his family occasionally. When he finally retires and returns to Fukushima, his wife dies seven years later. Not wanting to become a burden to his daughter and granddaughter, Kazu takes the train back to Tokyo. He’s so exhausted when he disembarks at Ueno Station that he simply lies down in the large public park outside the station and goes to sleep. In this way, almost by accident, he becomes homeless. As Kazu reflects:

If you fall into a pit you can climb out, but once you slip from a sheer cliff, you cannot step firmly into a new life again. The only thing that can stop you is the moment of your death. But nonetheless, one has to keep living until they die.

Though Kazu’s story is easy enough to follow, it’s narrated in fragments broken by the conversations of people walking through the park, which juxtapose the comforts of middle-class leisure against the day-by-day existence of unhoused people. The men and women living rough in Ueno Park aren’t abject by any means, as they’re cared for by each other and a network of local communities. Still, their lives are precarious, and they can be ordered to leave at any time.

Tokyo Ueno Station isn’t misery porn. Rather, it’s about helping the reader notice what was always visible. In a rare aphorism toward the end of the novel, Kazu remarks, “To be homeless is to be ignored when people walk past, while still being in full view of everyone.”

In another sense, however, the conversations Kazu overhears in Ueno Park are indicative of how most people living in Tokyo don’t view the unhoused as dangerous. If two middle-aged housewives chatting about their pets don’t care about whether an unhoused person is chilling out on the next bench over, are homeless people really so much of an eyesore? They’re not criminals, so why shouldn’t they have the same right to occupy public space as everyone else?

And why should the police have the right to force the unhoused away from their belongings and their communities every time a member of the imperial family visits the area?

The novel closes with Kazu being kicked out of Ueno Park and forced to seek shelter elsewhere until an imperial visit is concluded. During this intensely uncomfortable period, he suffers a minor stroke and decides to throw himself on the train tracks at Ueno Station, a decision that happens to coincide with the 2011 Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami. In his last moments, Kazu’s spirit returns to the Fukushima town of Sōma, which was directly impacted by the tsunami and resulting nuclear crisis (as documented brilliantly in Ryo Morimoto’s monograph Nuclear Ghost).

Yū’s irony isn’t subtle: the fantasy of “Japan” can only be celebrated if the people who literally build its monuments and provide its energy are hidden away. Tokyo Ueno Station asks the reader to consider the symbol of the Japanese Emperor, as well as the persistence of the ideologies that once supported Japanese military imperialism and continue to marginalize Japan’s own people.

As an American, I will readily admit that this is not my circus, but I can’t deny that Yū’s writing has given me some strong feelings about clowns. To me, it makes perfect sense that Tokyo Ueno Station was awarded the National Book Award for Translated Literature in 2020, right in the middle of the first Trump presidency.

Still, despite the strength of its argument and the sharpness of its critique, I don’t think that shaping political opinion is the point of this novel. Rather, the beauty of Tokyo Ueno Station lies in Kazu’s individual story, as well the fascinating collage of impressions he creates through his observations of the city, which are linked to his experiences growing up in the regional culture of coastal Fukushima. There is value in seeing what is often ignored, and value in documenting quiet voices that are often unheard.

What Yū demonstrates is the value and dignity of small and personal stories, especially in the face of large national narratives that crush the marginalized in the name of progress. Tokyo Ueno Station doesn’t make any sweeping political arguments or engage in polemics, but rather allows the remarkable individuality of Kazu’s story to shine. The brilliance of Yū’s critique is that, while Kazu’s story is his own, his unfortunate fate feels inevitable in the current of larger forces. Despite its literary style and gut-punch ending, Tokyo Ueno Station isn’t a difficult novel to read, but it’s a difficult story to sit with.

About a Place in the Kinki Region

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About a Place in the Kinki Region, originally published in 2023, is a horror novel assembled from roughly two dozen short stories presented in various formats, from magazine articles to interviews to YouTube video transcripts to reproductions of forum posts. These materials have been collected by the pseudonymous author, Sesuji, with minimal editorial comment, supposedly in an effort to locate someone who has mysteriously disappeared.

I should probably note here at the beginning that the actual author, an online horror writer who has published under the name Sesuji, is male. The diegetic character Sesuji is female, and it’s the character I’ll be referring to in this review.

Sesuji, a freelance writer living in Tokyo, has been contacted by her friend Ozawa, a junior editor at a publisher that produces a magazine devoted to the paranormal. Though the magazine has stopped putting out regular issues, it occasionally releases special issues, and Ozawa has been tasked with publishing one of these special issues on a very low budget. After combing through the magazine’s archives, he decides to create a collection of older articles that all pertain to a certain place in the Kinki region, the geographic area surrounding Osaka and extending south into the heavily forested Kii Peninsula.

This “certain place” is the location of numerous spooky legends and strange sightings, most of which can be categorized according to several distinct themes. There’s a ghost called Mashiro-san that calls out to children from the mountain forest, as well as a creepy playground game of the same name. There are abandoned buildings tagged with unsettling sticker graffiti, an alarming number of suicides, and perhaps even a creepy New Age cult as well.

Various sources suggest that the more supernatural incidents might be the work of a god whose shrine has fallen into disrepair due to rural depopulation, but it gradually becomes apparent that something much weirder is going on. In order to get to the bottom of the mystery, Ozawa visited the place himself to investigate, but now he’s gone missing. Sesuji therefore asks the reader: Is it possible that you could examine the material he collected and help her find him?

About a Place in the Kinki Region begins as a relatively straightforward collection of articles but eventually starts to experiment with its format in interesting ways. A standout piece is a short story called “Waiting.” This story is first presented as it was published in a magazine and then followed by its original rough draft, which contains a number of odd details that aren’t strictly relevant to the plot but may present clues regrading Ozawa’s disappearance. 

Partially due to the author’s experiments with format, and partially due to the sheer variation of situations and narrators, nothing about this book feels repetitive. The careful sense of pacing creates a subtle sense of structure and generates narrative tension, gradually revealing the stakes of the story while pulling the reader into the mystery at hand.  

I’m a big fan of “archival horror” narrative podcasts like Archive 81 and The Magnus Archives. I love how these stories simulate the experience of research while conveying the joy of discovering an intriguing rabbit hole. About a Place in the Kinki Region is a fantastic expression of this genre, inspiring the reader to dig ever deeper for a long-buried truth hidden within layers of secrets.

In addition, I enjoyed being an armchair tourist in this “certain place,” which is gifted with natural beauty and an intriguing local culture. If any vengeful revenants or neglected god-demons are searching for someone to spirit away to a mountain forest on the Kii Peninsula, I volunteer myself. I hear the evening twilight is especially magical… and even the ghosts have good internet access, apparently.

The translator, Michael Blaskowsky, has done an excellent job creating a distinct set of narrative voices across a range of tones and styles, from campy to lyrical to journalistic to point-blank horror. The book’s designer and editor at Yen Press, Andy Swist and Emma McClain, have done a marvelous job as well, engineering an unobtrusive flow of stories while occasionally adding small creative touches. I apologize for spoiling the surprise, but the book includes a secret set of illustrations in a semi-hidden section in the back, and it’s extremely cursed.

It’s also worth mentioning that About a Place in the Kinki Region was adapted into a movie released in August 2025 (here’s a mirror of the region-locked trailer on Reddit), but I haven’t yet seen any information about a global release outside of the film festival circuit, unfortunately.

In the years following the pandemic, I’ve encountered a number of “textual found footage” horror novels by Japanese authors capitalizing on the recent boom in YouTube creepypasta videos. Many of these books are very silly, but About a Place in the Kinki Region is surprisingly well-structured and entertaining. I’m happy this book been published in translation, and I hope my fellow archive horror fans enjoy its collection of unsettling little treasures as much as I do.

The Blanket Cats

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Kiyoshi Shigematsu’s The Blanket Cats collects seven stories about the clients of a service that rents cats for a period of three days. What I appreciate about these stories is that their human protagonists are messy people who are clearly the villain of someone else’s life. Will three days with a cat fix them? Probably not, to be honest, but it’s still a nice fantasy to imagine that a brief experience of caring for an animal could completely change someone’s perspective.

“The Cat in the Passenger Seat” is a frequent companion of Taeko, a woman on the verge of retirement who often rents this particular cat to accompany her on trips away from Tokyo. With no family to support her through a recent diagnosis of a serious illness, Taeko has decided to splurge on one final vacation. As for where the money has come from, it’s fair to say that Taeko is on the run from more than her worries about the future. She’s always done the right thing and made sacrifices for everyone else, so she might as well be selfish for once, right? Thankfully, Taeko’s cat companion helps her see beyond her immediate problems.

“The Cat with No Tail” is chosen by Koji, a boy in middle school whose growing pains have resulted in the first major crisis of his life. Instead of being bullied, he’s the one doing the bullying. Well, sort of. Koji tolerated an annoying classmate all throughout elementary school; and, now that he’s in a new environment, he finally found the courage to tell this kid to leave him alone. Unfortunately, he didn’t express himself in the most diplomatic way, and his former classmate was so distraught that he made a serious attempt at self-harm and almost died. That’s a wild thing to happen to a twelve-year-old, and Koji processes his guilt by talking to the cat, who responds by showing the emotions that Koji has been suppressing.

“The Cat Who Knew How to Pretend” is rented by Hiromi, a young woman who needs a stand-in for her family’s recently deceased pet in order to fool her grandmother, who’ll be visiting her parents’ house one final time before they entrust her to a facility that specializes in caring for patients living with cognitive decline. To ensure that the visit goes smoothly, Hiromi also asks her boyfriend to attend a family dinner even though she’s on the verge of breaking up with him. It’s all well and good for the cat to pretend that everything is fine, but Hiromi realizes that the time has come for her to be open and honest about what she wants.

I recently encountered the term “joyslop” as an appellation for low-effort entertainment media, and The Blanket Cats is joyslop if I’ve ever seen it. Psychological realism isn’t a concern in these stories, nor is animal welfare. Just so everyone is on the same page, “renting” an animal to any customer who walks through the door isn’t a great idea to begin with, and cats can’t be trained to accommodate different companions in the way that certain other domestic animals can. I apologize for being crude, but I imagine that the reality of a rental service like this would be cat piss everywhere. Still, The Blanket Cats is pure fantasy, like YA fiction for adults. It’s joyslop.  

I’ve been thinking about the purpose served by The Blanket Cats and other cozy cat books, and I suspect their appeal probably extends a little deeper than simple guilty-pleasure reading. To varying degrees, the short stories collected in these books address fairly serious social issues such as, for example, dealing with school bullying as a parent or growing old without a social safety net. Books like The Blanket Cats provide a way to playact various scenarios from the comfort of your armchair – again, like YA fiction for adults.

I’m tempted to take this line of reasoning a few steps farther into social analysis and argue that the popularity of bestselling cat books might have something to do with the decline of “traditional” news media like print newspapers, morning radio broadcasts, and nightly news programs. I get the sense that, back when this sort of media was more widely consumed, journalists could provide authoritative editorial opinions of social issues, thus creating consensus and catharsis. In other words, a serious issue exists, but someone is talking about, and therefore someone must be doing something about it.  

Now that our consumption of news is so fragmented, who knows what to think? People are still looking for an editorial voice to trust, and I feel like this is partially what’s behind the success of books like The Blanket Cats. The fantasy of these non-confrontational stories about normal people dealing with hot-topic social issues isn’t necessarily that a cat is going to fix you in three days, but rather that these systemic issues can be fixed, because someone is talking about them. All things considered, The Blanket Cats is much easier to consume than, say, a political podcast hosted by wealthy kids in Brooklyn or a series of inflammatory diatribes posted to YouTube.

In any case, I’d like to express my appreciation for the translator, Jesse Kirkwood, who has found himself a lovely (and hopefully fruitful) niche in translating and localizing this sort of fiction, often through the charming vernacular of light Briticisms. This style of casual prose in Japanese requires no small amount of skill to render into the sort of English suited for a mass-market bestseller. I’ve been following Kirkwood’s work since his translation of A Perfect Day to Be Alone, and I’m always impressed.

If you’re in the market for cozy cat fiction, The Blanket Cats has more of a bite than the usual fare, but it’s still sweet and hopeful. This book hopes you’re doing okay. If you’re reading this review, I hope you’re doing okay too. After all, there’s definitely a place for joyslop in the world, and there’s no shame in needing a cat and blanket sometimes.

Strange Map

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Strange Map (変な地図), published in October 2025, is the fourth book written by Uketsu, the bestselling author of Strange Pictures and Strange Houses. Unlike Uketsu’s previous books, which are collections of seemingly unrelated stories eventually connected by an overarching narrative, Strange Map is a proper novel that follows the actions of a single protagonist, Uketsu’s architect friend Kurihara from Strange Houses. Despite its more conventional narrative format, Strange Map is still filled with Uketsu’s characteristic illustrations and diagrams, which aid the reader in visualizing the uncanny spaces of its horror-themed mystery through a remarkable set of twists and turns.

Strange Map opens with the written confession of an elderly woman named Kimiko Okigami. In her youth, she writes, she took the lives of countless people. Before she dies, she wants to tell the story of the village where she was born and its neighboring mountain, which was supposedly inhabited by demons.

The next section raises the stakes even higher. In the present day of July 2015, Kōsuke Ōsato wakes up after a night of drinking to find himself lying in a train tunnel. He recognizes the tunnel immediately, as he’s the president of the railway company that constructed it. The tunnel has emergency exits, of course, but there’s just one problem – he’s right in the middle between two of them, and the first train of the morning should be coming any second now.

After thoroughly grabbing the reader’s attention, Strange Map shifts to the perspective of its main narrator, a 22yo college student in Tokyo named Fuminobu, who usually goes by his family name of Kurihara. Kurihara is an architecture major who’s currently on the job market, but he hasn’t had any luck so far. This is likely because, as he readily admits, he’s terrible at interviews. When asked why he’s interested in architecture, for instance, he can’t quite bring himself to admit that he wants to follow in the footsteps of his mother, who once played games with him involving engineering problems but died when he was still a child. 

After yet another unsuccessful round of interviews, Kurihara’s sister asks him to come home and visit his father, who needs to talk with him. This conversation ends up being about the house left behind by Kurihara’s grandmother – the woman who wrote the letter that opens the novel. Before his father sells the house, Kurihara asks to see it for himself, and he discovers a notebook containing a set of burned photos alongside the “strange map” of the title, which depicts a seaside village below a mountain filled with monsters. 

Like his late mother, Kurihara can’t sleep easy until he’s solved the problem in front of him. His father gives him permission to investigate, but only on the condition that he solves the family mystery in time to return home and do practice interviews with his sister before his next real interview, which is only a week away.

Interspersed between chapters, his grandmother’s letter continues. She writes of her hometown of Kasōko, an isolated village surrounded by the sea on one side and forest on all others. While the men caught and sold fish, the women handled the business of maintaining the village itself. Among other things, this maintenance involved carving stone statues to ward off the demons of Mojōyama, the mountain looming over the village.

Kurihara, who doesn’t know any of this history, nevertheless manages to ascertain the location of the village. He travels to the rural seaside only to find that the village was completely abandoned decades ago. To complicate matters, he finds himself smack in the middle of a scandal surrounding the succession of Kōsuke Ōsato, the president of the local railway company who was mysteriously run down by one of his own trains.

Was the death of the railway president truly an accident, or was it murder? What happened to Kasōko village? Who exactly did Kurihara’s grandmother kill – and what are the demons on the mountain?

To help the reader visualize the specifics of the story, Uketsu has provided all manner of simple diagrams illustrating how the space of the narrative is laid out. These visual inserts were necessary in Strange Pictures and Strange Houses; meanwhile, in Strange Map, they’re largely superfluous. The reader probably doesn’t need a visualization of the concept that “there are five equidistant emergency exits in the train tunnel,” for example. Uketsu has also provided slightly silly diagrams of various social relationships, such as an illustration of the railway company president wearing a suit and sitting at a desk while his second-in-command wears a construction helmet and manages a job site.

Still, I’m not complaining. Regardless of whether they’re necessary, I love all of these illustrations. I find their lo-fi clunkiness charming, and the space they create on the page helps to set the pace of the story. It would be all too easy to fly through this book, but the illustrations helped me slow down and focus on details. In addition, I found that the “unnecessary” illustrations help to reveal the inner workings of the narrator’s mind.

To me, Kurihara reads as being on the autism spectrum, an aspect of the character that contributes to the distinctive narrative style of the story. The closest comparison I can make is to Sayaka Murata’s Convenience Store Woman, but there are echoes of Mark Haddon’s The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time as well. Although he doesn’t identify as autistic, Kurihara understands that he needs to work on his people skills, and the secondary B-plot of the novel involves his carefully considered approach to teaching himself to behave “normally” instead of immediately saying something that’s true but will hurt other people’s feelings.

I’m used to Uketsu’s characters behaving like chess pieces on a game board, so this added depth of character came as a pleasant surprise. Also, while I usually read mystery novels for the pleasure of watching fictional characters die in ridiculous ways, I found myself feeling invested in Kurihara’s safety, as well as his emotional wellbeing. This attachment to the character adds yet another layer of tension to the story as Kurihara becomes personally involved with the family that runs a local inn.

Strange Map is a super fun and fantastically clever mystery novel, and its elements of gothic horror are as darkly brilliant as anything written by Edgar Allan Poe or Arthur Conan Doyle. Jim Rion has done a marvelous job with the translations of Strange Pictures and Strange Houses, and I’m looking forward to what he does with Strange Map. For the time being, the sequel to Strange Houses, which is titled Strange Buildings in English, is scheduled to be published in March 2026, so that’s something to look forward to as well.

It’s a great time to be a fan of Japanese mystery novels, and I’m interested to see how Uketsu’s work in translation might influence other authors. Do I want to see Uketsu copycats? Sure! Absolutely. But do I also want to see a generation of writers raised on YouTube creepypasta take inspiration from Uketsu and translate that sort of multimedia textual fragmentation into a new style of fiction? Hell yes. Let’s go.

At the Edge of the Woods

Kathryn1 Comment

In the woods, there is a castle. The castle was once the residence of the landowning family that ruled the area. During the war, it was the headquarters of a resistance movement. Now it sits empty and abandoned. The castle is so deep in the woods that most people couldn’t find it if they tried. No one tries, however, as the woods are filled with child-snatching imps. Strange noises come from the woods, and occasionally strange people as well.

Masatsugu Ono’s At the Edge of the Woods is a novel about dread and anxiety. There’s no plot, nor is there any sort of story. Instead, Ono presents four episodes in the life of a father left alone with his young son while his wife is away. There’s no chronological order to the four chapters, which all occur at roughly the same time, and there’s no meaningful change in the personalities of the characters. Rather, the story development involves the slow intensification of an atmosphere of foreboding.

The nameless father who serves as the narrator is Japanese, as is his wife, who is pregnant with their second child. The wife has flown back to Japan to visit her parents, leaving her husband and son in an unspecified European country that reads as Germany-coded. The family has taken up residence at the eponymous edge of a vast forest in a rural area dotted with small towns.

The country is now at peace, but its neighbors are not so lucky. Long lines of refugees stream across the borders, seemingly unhindered by local authorities. It’s entirely possible that some of these refugees have camped out in the woods next to the narrator’s house, but it’s difficult to say for sure. It’s equally difficult to specify the origin of the odd sounds constantly emerging in the forest.

Characters drift in and out of the narrative, leaving behind very little of themselves save for strong emotional impressions. The disabled daughter of a bakery owner has good intentions but struggles to make herself understood. The postal worker who delivers the mail relates grotesque stories to the father, who suspects the man might be reading and discarding his wife’s letters. A neighboring farmer has always been kind to the narrator’s family, but his son reports that he once saw the man tie a dog in a burlap sack and beat the poor creature to death.

Perhaps the most striking of these characters is an elderly woman that the narrator’s son invites into the house. She appears seemingly from nowhere, and she vanishes just as mysteriously. While she’s in the house, though, she becomes a living symbol of the narrator’s anxieties regarding his ill-fitting role as the solitary caretaker of a young child in a foreign land:

Overcome, the old woman buried her face in her hands. She trembled violently, and a sob escaped her. I looked up. The kitchen windows were all closed. And yet in the air there hovered the sour smell of decayed leaves from deep in the woods, leaves that would never dry out. Steam rose from the old woman. The steam was not from her tea. A puddle spread at her feet. (20)

In his “Introduction” to The Oxford Book of Gothic Tales, Chris Baldick neatly summarizes the genre as an expression of the fear that the horrors of prior eras will not remain comfortably in the past. At the Edge of the Woods presents the readers with a range of Gothic tropes to heighten the sense of uneasy suspicion that, even in the most progressive of European countries, there is no escape from misery and cruelty. While the back-cover copy of At the Edge of the Woods calls the novel “an allegory for climate catastrophe,” this feels like a bit of an interpretive reach. Instead, Ono seems to be suggesting more broadly that, even in our bright society sustained by futuristic technologies, we’re never that far away from the edge of a large and unknowable forest.

At the Edge of the Woods can be difficult to read, and it’s probably not for everyone. Speaking personally, though, I love this book, and I’ve read it on the winter solstice every year since it was published in 2022. Ono’s writing is gorgeously atmospheric, and the legendary Juliet Winters Carpenter has done a dazzling job with the translation. If you appreciate the sort of quiet, eerie, and darkly suggestive Japanese Gothic writing typified by Yoko Ogawa’s short story collections Revenge and The Diving Pool, I’d recommend At the Edge of the Woods as the next step on a shadowed path into the liminal spaces in the penumbra of modern civilization.

Silent Singer

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Yōko Ogawa’s 2025 novel Silent Singer (Sairento Shingā) is a bittersweet story about a woman named Ririka who lives alone in a mountain forest near a community of people devoted to silence. Ririka is a professional singer, but she never makes a name for herself, only taking freelance jobs that require a performer with an anonymous voice. Though the singer and the silent community eventually fade into obscurity, Ogawa celebrates the beauty and dignity of their lives, as well as the significance of creativity that never finds an audience.

On an isolated mountain in the countryside, a group of people calling themselves “The Introverts’ Club” have bought a parcel of land and formed a community named Acacia Fields, which is devoted to quiet and simple living. The Acacia Fields community isn’t a religious organization; rather, they’re normal people committed to the philosophy that “silence soothes the soul.” Anyone can join as long as they’re content never to speak in the presence of others.

Ririka lives in an old house next to a forest adjoining Acacia Fields, where her grandmother is employed as the gatekeeper. The gatekeeper’s job is to communicate with people from the outside world while also managing a small store that sells produce, pastries, and other items produced by the community, which raises livestock and maintains extensive gardens.

While her grandmother manages in the gatehouse, Ririka has the run of Acacia Fields. She spends hours with the aging doctor of the community’s small clinic, who isn’t bound by a vow of silence and reads to her while teaching her “finger language,” a simple form of sign language used by the community. Though her mother committed suicide after being abandoned by her father, Ririka enjoys a happy childhood divided between the public school in the town below the mountain, the doting care of her loving grandmother, and the quiet but genuine affection of the people living at Acacia Fields.

Ririka discovers her path in life during a sheep shearing session at Acacia Fields, when she’s asked to sing a simple lullaby to help keep the animals calm. She performs beautifully and enjoys herself immensely. A town official who attended the event is impressed by Ririka’s singing, and he asks her to record a similar song to be played over the municipal loudspeakers every evening at 5pm. Though no one knows the singer is Ririka, the song is so well-received that the tradition continues indefinitely.

Shortly after she graduates from high school, Ririka’s grandmother passes away. Ririka remembers her grandmother by visiting her Puppet Garden, which the old woman created after a child went missing in the mountain forest one summer. To soothe the boy’s spirit, Ririka’s grandmother fashioned five dolls from discarded household objects and placed them at the center of a small grove. For Ririka, the Puppet Garden serves as a place of quiet meditation. 

Ririka takes over her grandmother’s position as the Acacia Fields gatekeeper while supplementing her income through various freelance jobs passed along by her voice instructor. In each case, Ririka is recommended because of her relative anonymity. Ririka sings jingles for television commercials, performs anime theme songs, records vocal tracks for idol groups, and even provides the voice of a talking children’s toy. Though she doesn’t seem to realize it, Ririka is quite successful as a professional singer, but she never leaves her home on the mountain.

As an adult, Ririka strikes up a romance with the security guard at the parking lot where she keeps her car. On their first date, Ririka takes him to the Puppet Garden, whose dolls are in a severe state of decay. Instead of being creeped out, the security guard is charmed. He’s a good match for Ririka, as he has an odd hobby of his own – piecing together carefully curated scrapbooks devoted to the lost works of famous authors.

The only shadow over the relationship is that Ririka finds herself unable to sing for her boyfriend. She can only sing, she explains, if her audience isn’t a living human. Meanwhile, with few young people moving to the mountain, the Acacia Fields community is in danger of being claimed by entropy and senescence.

Silent Singer resonates with echoes of the Studio Ghibli charm of Mina’s Matchbox; but, as is often the case with Yoko Ogawa’s work, a major theme of the novel is the gentle beauty of decay. Ririka’s house is slowly falling apart, as are the dolls in her grandmother’s Puppet Garden. The agricultural holdings of Acacia Fields are gradually diminishing, and the members of the community are growing old. Regardless, the village remains peaceful, as does the surrounding forest, especially in contrast to the absurdities of the freelance work Ririka takes as a singer. 

In many ways, Silent Singer reminds me of Haruki Murakami’s 2023 novel The City and Its Uncertain Walls, especially in its aggressive refusal to engage with contemporary technology. It could be the case that the nostalgic settings of the two novels are simply a product of the preoccupations of two aging writers, but that’s not how these stories feel to me.

At this point in the death spiral of our capitalist hellworld, I’m bone-tired of “progress” that dehumanizes everything it touches. Meanwhile, Murakami’s narrator leaves his corporate job to work in a small-town library in Fukushima prefecture, while Ririka remains loyal to her home in a quiet mountain forest, which provides a refuge from the profit-driven demands of the entertainment industry. And good for them! I am here for characters who do not give a single fuck about social media or self-branding.

While it might be a stretch to call Silent Singer “anticapitalist,” this is a story about the value of creativity at the margins, as well as the beauty of art without an audience. Ogawa’s obsession with the decay that creeps in at the edges of isolated communities and individual lives can sometimes feel uncomfortable, but let it be uncomfortable! There’s nothing cozy about the richness of human experience, and the care and attention Ogawa devotes to the slow endings of her stories is one of the great pleasures of her work. The work of Ogawa’s “silent” creatives may be unremarked, but it’s far from unremarkable.