Okay, this is a book review/commentary/lazy threadbare attempt at analysis. Now I know book reviews aren’t something that I’ve done on this blog, but in my defence it does fit in with the depreciated literary component of this blog, present only sparingly in the short stories I posted far too many years ago and in my translation of Dazai Osamu’s An Urgent Appeal half a year ago. I had briefly considered translating another story by Dazai, Jorui (‘Womankind’), in which he talks about inciting a female lover into suicide, but my schedule was full and my interest didn’t last. Zadie Smith is an author whose writing has consistently lit up my mind, albeit only in my shallow experience of her, and now that I’ve been enough inspired by her book to write something on it, I’m trying to get it down before this fire fades too.
I’ll go to the park today. Now the air has turned chilly and the gingko trees are all gold. For the last week it’s been overcast but today the sun has shown himself, chasing the clouds from the sky to leave only a few wisps draped in the heights of the clear crisp blue. Yes, I’ll go to the park. At this time people will still be at work and in the shops along the way they will be drumming their fingers on quiet counters. Children will be coming back from school. Boys and girls in pairs, their yellow caps and their red backpacks, tugging one another along in games of tag. Or with their bicycles the middle school girls, swinging their schoolbags and always looking straight at you, stepping aside with a polite bob and picking up their laughter when you’re past. Their bright eyes, their neat, soft bangs, flashing their first earrings as they walk. They must think I am ancient. They must think I am ugly. I will not look at them. I will go to the park. There will be no one, only the pigeons dawdling for the evening. In the summer the hydrangea blooms used to make spots of gentle colour in the park shrubbery. There are no more flowers now. I will lean back on a bench and close my eyes and there will be no sound, no cars, nothing except the wind. In the distance a dog barks; on the gingko trees, the leaves are beginning to fall.
Every cocktail is an alluring new possibility. You form the words that you may have seen once in a book or heard in a movie – martini, mule, Milano – and as the bartender tumbles mouthfuls of golden intoxication from the little hour-glass cup wedged between his two fingers into your glass, the room lights seem brighter, the shadows by the wall more enticing. With this you might leap on the bar and tap-dance its length, or swivel your stool to the woman two seats away and take her on a night drive; with this tomorrow will be sunny and you a person you had never known before. The bartender completes the drink with a swirl of the stirrer; confidentially the ice cubes clink, whispering of wonders of flavour, and—you drink. Maybe it’s bitter. Maybe the alcohol is stronger than you expected, or maybe it cloys in the back of your throat, diluted with too much liqueur. So what? You simply rise and pay the bill—and then it’s the next bar, the next cocktail, the next shining jewel to take down from the shelf. The streets twinkle with the innumerable lights of bars, and you have as many cocktails to try as your legs will walk straight. In the bottom of a cocktail glass is something far more potent than alcohol. In its uncountable variety, in its glittering enchantment, what we find is hope.
I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you. Sir. That man is cruel. Cruel. A cruel man. Yes. A hateful man. A wicked man. Ah, I can’t bear it. You mustn’t let Him live. Continue reading
Kono Sekai no Katasumi ni sets its tone early on when its protagonist, Urano Suzu, tries out ways to bulk up the family dinner. Continue reading
Celebrating a certain summer star festival.
When to the seventh night they flock,
Joy-birds across the silver stream
With wings like glockenspiels, that beat
And ford the waters, dock to dock,
Allowing us to meet—
Your sunset clouds signal to me
Anticipation, in the weave
Of blushing threaded through with heat
From under practised lethargy,
As ev’ning airs blow sweet—
And till the morning you’ll be real
No bright star, distant: human warmth
In hands, cheeks, eyelashes adorn’d,
Beauty to see, your pulse to feel.
I’ll hold you till the morn.
So when tonight the bridge is born
Allowing us at last to meet
I’ll come, as ev’ning airs blow sweet:
I’ll come to hold you till the morn.
So it looks like I can try poetry too.
Sleep comes in waves retreating from the real
—It doesn’t end.
Walls and the ground were always just pretend.
Voices dampen, as coyest murmurs steal
Round your arms with profoundest feel—
—ing, like you’ll bend:
Into a night of living dream.
Into a tv sky.
Into a world where flat is tall
And round, and all besides.
Blocks they will form, to stopper up your sight.
Then a kick, it falls—Toppling, mere light.
So I decided to write a short story. I hope you find it funny.
Red on the Carpet
Then there was red on the carpet and the maid was in tears. She knelt and wept in great silent sobs Continue reading