Paris in July 2025

It just occurred to me that it is July, and with that, comes the Paris in July annual event which I rarely miss. If we cannot go there physically, surely we must visit via literature.

I have searched my collection, and found, to no one’s surprise, that I prefer to read the classics. I will choose from these selections:

I am not sure I will read all of them…wait, I am quite sure I won’t have time to read all of them. But, each one appeals to me, and I thank Emma of Words and Peace for the opportunity to dive deeply into French literature yet again this July.

Links to the event can be found here.

(Do any of you care to join me in reading one of these titles? Tom?)

The Summer House by Masashi Matsuie, translated from Japanese by Margaret Mitsutani

Have I mentioned the difficulty I’ve had going to our church of some twenty years? It has become increasingly onerous to me because instead of an altar there is a stage. Instead of light in the sanctuary auditorium, there is darkness. And instead of music which allows my spirit to enter worship with a state of reverence, there is a bombastic assault to every nerve in my body. 

In a way, The Summer House addresses this situation.

Ostensibly, the novel is about the Murai Office of Architectural Design entering a competition for the design of the National Library of Modern Literature. Shunsuke Murai has taken his firm away from the heat of Tokyo to live, and work, in  the Summer House which is nestled in the mountain village of Aoguri in Kita-Asama. At first, I am reading to discover if, in fact, they are awarded the prize. And then I realize, it really isn’t important who wins. For Matsuie writes about so much more than architecture and design.

I am immersed in the peaceful mood he creates, and I find myself dwelling in the summer house with its inhabitants. I am off in the shadows somewhere, but able to hear the scraping of their Staedtler Lumograph pencils as they are sharpened with an Opinel knife each morning. I smell the fire burning in the evening, as Beethoven’s Symphony No. 8, Brahm’s Second Piano Concerto, or Bach preludes on guitar are played from the record player. I see the katsura tree in the garden, seemingly afloat in the mist, and relish the remote quietness of such an environment.

I long to attend the church that is described early on. When the youngest employee, Sakanishi, visits this church to see the work which Sensei had built, he writes this:

The pipe organ he mentioned was tucked into the wall off to the right of the altar. When I was getting ready to leave that day, a young woman was trying it out, pushing and pulling the stops - they reminded me of chess pieces. It had a soothing tone, but with some depth. There was almost no reverberation. A simple, friendly sort of sound not at all like the music that seems to pound down onto the congregation’s heads from above. This one started at your hands and feet, then travelled through you to your eardrums, rather than bouncing off the walls. (p. 74)

Sensei creates an ideal environment with his blueprints, which demonstrate his philosophy that design must serve the user. Consider what that means, then, for designing a library. He must take into account not only the readers, but the books themselves. On what sort of shelf should they sit?

Books line up nicely on wood, and they don’t slip around, either, even taking the problem of mold and termites into account, there’s just no comparison. And when dust collects on melamine, it gets a dingy, dusty look. (p. 115)

No relationship is too small to be left unexamined. We look at that between fire and the logs which they burn, books and the shelves on which they sit, employees and their sensei, communities in cities and those in this small artistic village of which the Summer House is a part. And, we look at the relationship between Sensei and one of his former clients, as well as the relationship between Sakanishi and his colleagues. 

The Summer House is a quiet, gentle book which will be with me a long time. I might add that the translation is exquisite, with none of that odd, or removed, feeling I sometimes get from reading Japanese literature. Instead, this book is a marvel in every way.

(Thank you to Other Press for the gift of an opportunity to read and review it, even before it was published on June 17, 2025.)

The Persian by David McCloskey “Whatever the Mullahs say, Paradise is a fluid concept.”

How prescient it is that The Persian would arrive on my doorstep the very week that Israel bombed Iran. I watched the news in disbelief and then opened this novel to find it all the more believable.

We are reading the story of Kam Esfahani’s tortured experience, documented in prison with the blue crayons and stacks of paper the General has provided. He knows not where he is. But, he does know that crayons are less likely to be used as a weapon, even though he contemplates thrusting one through his own eye into his brain. He does know that he must not speak until he is spoken to, and that the General has not been satisfied with the drafts of the story that Kam has produced the past three years of his imprisonment. He chooses the sharpest crayon with care and begins yet again.

Kam is a dentist, living in Sweden. But, he is not Swiss. He is a Persian Jew, recruited by Arik Glitzman to work for the Mossad. Glitzman is Chief of the Mossad’s Caesarea Division, responsible for target killings, cyberattacks, and sabotage in Iran. Why would Kam agree to a proposition involving the capture of Colonel Jaffar Ghorbani? Because he longs to escape Sweden. He longs for a home in California, which he will be able to obtain with the money he earns as a spy.

Is it worth the danger? 

That is a decision each man must make for himself. What are we willing to die for?  Courage? Culture? Love? Our own integrity? Maybe Kam also longs to prove that he is something more daring than a dentist could ever be. Maybe the ties between being a spy and being emotionally involved with Roya, a Persian widow and her daughter, are irrevocably intertwined. 

I know that I read long into the night, unconscious of turning each page, as McCloskey’s writing is exquisite. You can keep John le Carre, and maybe even Mick Herron.  I deem McCloskey the better writer, for the way he is able to build tension so eloquently. For the picture he portrays of a man brave beyond measure, and two countries which may never find peace.

(Thank you to W. W. Norton for an Advanced Reader’s Copy of The Persian, which will be published on September 30, 2025.)

Grace

I saw a long, fat, black-beaded wallet at the cash register where I was paying for my bar cookies at Whole Foods this afternoon.

I looked questioningly at the man who had just paid ahead of me, but he shrugged. “It’s not mine,” he said, quietly smiling at me.

“Here,” I said to the girl taking my money. (“That will be $8.15,” she said, and when I told her I’d give her the fifteen cents she said what they all say now, the clerks who can no longer count back change, “I’ve already put it in the system.”)

“Someone left this,” I said. “Save it for when she comes back looking for it.”

Just then, the most frantic woman came rushing up.

“Don’t worry!” I said, “We have it!”

“Oh,” she said. “I’ve been searching my car and this is the last place I was. Other than the bank. I was at the bank before coming here, and there was so much money…”

“Don’t worry,” I said, putting my arms around her. “He is with us. He is with you.”

I would have said more but for the line behind us, stomping their feet as they do. “Patience,” I thought. “Just have a little patience, people.”

And then I remembered myself, driving up 75th Street on this day of 94 degree Fahrenheit temperatures, where someone was crossing without waiting for the little lit up figure to come up on the traffic light. “You asshole,” I mutter, under my breath, because I’m hot, and crabby, and I have to wait for this man who will not obey the rules.

It is so easy for one good thing to be undermined by the bad thing I’ve done just before. “Lord,” I pray, “give me the grace to be gentle with others.”

Amen.

The Passengers on the Hankyu Line by Hiro Arikawa

 

The stories of the passengers on The Passengers on The Hankyu Line, by Hiro Arikawa, are linked together like the cars of a train. They are connected, and propelled, by the people who inhabit them. 

At first, I wondered if an elderly woman with her granddaughter was the conduit through which wisdom flowed. After all, she suggested that Shoko, the resentful and bitter woman coming home from her fiancé’s wedding to a work colleague, stop at a certain town. This town, Obayashi, proved to be a delightful respite which calmed Shoko’s spirit as she gazed at the swallows and the way the townspeople cared for them.

The grandmother also suggested to Misa, after witnessing horrible verbal abuse thrown out by her boyfriend, that Misa find someone better. After the elderly woman and her granddaughter leave, Misa thinks, “Why am I dating such a jerk?” 

But, as the novel progresses, we see that she is not the only one who has a positive effect on the lives of the passengers in this train. The passengers learn more about themselves by listening to, and observing, one another.

Although each passenger’s story is unique we see them grow and change, especially as the train begins its return trip back through each station it has taken us. 

All manner of people from every walk of life - solo passengers, friends, couples, families, work colleagues - traverse the concourse at a brisk pace.

But as they cross paths, the contents of each traveler’s heart are a mystery known only to themselves.

Yet, despite the mystery, I agree with one of them who says, “Come to think of it, I owe a certain gratitude to strangers.” It is an appreciative attitude to take, especially when we find ourselves surrounded by others from whom we are quite different.

Thanks to Berkley Books for the opportunity to read and review The Passengers on the Hankyu Line by Hiro Arikawa, translated by Allison Markin Powell.

Hiro Arikawa is a renowned author from Tokyo. She is the international bestselling author of THE TRAVELLING CAT CHRONICLES and THE GOODBYE CAT. Her enduring classic title,PASSENGERS ON THE HANKYU LINE, has sold over a million copies in Japan and beyond.

 

Allison Markin Powell won the PEN Translation Prize for her translation of Hiromi Kawakami’s The Ten Loves of Nishino and is also the translator of Kawakami’s Strange Weather in Tokyo and The Nakano Thrift Shop as well as Shunmyo Masuno’s The Art of Simple Living and works by Osamu Dazai, Fuminori Nakamura, and Kanako Nishi, among others. She maintains the online database Japanese Literature in English.

There’s a reason I don’t read Romance.

As I left the library the other day, I stopped to peruse the Used Shelf as I always do to look for a treasure hidden among the discards.(Once I found a hardcover, first edition of Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore. Really.)

On impulse, I picked up Claimed by J.R. Ward. It was by a best selling author, and she had graduated from Smith College; it couldn’t be that bad, right?

Let me give you the briefest sample of her writing:

“As she continued to mutter while staring at the barn, he tapped on her shoulder. When she finally looked away from the newscaster and cameraman, he took Lydia’s hand to make sure she paid attention.

“What did they do to you.” He put his palm up as she opened her mouth. “No, you don’t fucking lie to me. You brought me into this. You don’t get to start editing the story now.”

Her eyes went back to the barn, her brows down, her lips in a tight line. As a breeze came up her ponytail was swept in his direction and he caught a whiff of her shampoo.” 

Okay, let’s forget about the fact that there is not a vocabulary word in the entire 200+ pages I’ve read that a third grader wouldn’t know. Let’s even forget about the fact that there are at least two grammar errors in as many paragraphs. Dependent clauses, compound sentences, omission of ending punctuation marks be damned.

What really troubles me is that it is all so trite. What I’ve read is absolutely meaningless! The characters lie, swear, futilely joke with each other, break into another’s home, and essentially do nothing of any interest to me whatsoever. So, I’m abandoning this brief foray into a genre by an author I’ll never be tempted to pick up again.

Even if she  does have 88.2K followers on Instagram with “F**k is a comma” in her profile. That’s the best you can come up with?

I’ll be back in a day or so with thoughts on more books listed for the International Booker Prize 2025. What a joy that will be.

Sunday Salon: Mother’s Day Edition

 

My mother loves lily of the valley. And when I brought a bunch to her sister, who was feeling ill this week, my aunt said, “Grandma loved these flowers.” Apparently, it runs in the family.

What a thought: to run in the family. Imagine that the flowers loved by the women of the family grow in my backyard because I love them, too. Imagine the continuation of likes and similarities.

Once, when my son was in High School, we attended the Mother Son Brunch. I was surrounded by blondes with fake hair, fake eyelashes, fake tits, and fake nails. They were talking about what their sons would be after graduation. 

“And what would you like to be?” one of them asked my son.

“A mercenary,” he replied. 

He wasn’t kidding. For the longest time he wanted to work for Blackwater, an American private military contractor now known as Constellis.

There was a long pause. How do you respond to someone who wants to be a hit man? But, inside I smiled. Not because I condone killing, but because my son is, after all, like me. Neither one of us wants to fit inside a box. Be easily defined. Color in the lines. 

May you find the connection you need to the people in your life. And, to those who are mothers, a very Happy Mother’s Day.

(Find more Sunday Salon posts here.)

On The Calculation of Voume I by Solvej Balle, translated from the Danish by Barbara J.Haveland (“Maybe there’s healing in sentences.”)

My husband, who is a gardener, notices things like this stone that is wrapped with a rope. In Japan, it has a name, sekimori ishi, and it indicates that a path is closed. Or, that visitors should take a different route.

I find it particularly meaningful in light of the way I placed such a stone in my blog. For a long time, it has been closed. Even now I am hesitant to move the boundary stone, uncertain if I’m ready to head down this blogging path again.

Yet, the requests to review books keep coming in, and more surprising than that, to me, is that my blog stats have not significantly changed since the post I last published. Perhaps there is still an interest in what can be found here…

Although I have not joined the International Booker Prize Shadow Jury this year, for the first time in at least eight years, I have been reading the list on my own. I was reluctant to read it under pressure as there is such little time between the announcement of long list and the winner. Instead, I wanted to take my time before submitting scores, and evaluating each book, with fellow shadow members so that we could arrive at a decision as to our winner. 

This year’s short list is not disappointing. I have read all but one, and I would like to share my thoughts on each as we draw closer to learning which book is the winner on May 20, 2025. Let’s begin with On The Calculation of Volume I by Solvej Balle. 

The premise is relatively simple; the narrator relives the same day in her life over and over and over for a year. The end.

But, when thinking about it, I find much deeper applications. For example, couldn’t that scenario depict the way that we are stuck in our lives? We don’t know how we got somewhere, and we often don’t know how to escape. Certainly I have felt that I make the same mistakes, repeat the same routine, relive the same sorrows over and over and over.

Most poignant to me is when she speaks of writing, for it is a similar passion of mine:

I am sitting at a table with a pile of paper in front of me on which I have written that it is the 18th of November and that my name is Tara Selter. I feel as if I am no longer alone. As if someone is listening. My days have not been lost to oblivion. They exist. My days exist in my pile of paper, they have not been erased during the night, the paper remembers…Maybe there’s healing in sentences.” (p. 84)

Of course, this will probably not be an aspect of the book on which most readers focus. But, I am fascinated by the power of writing, the power of words, as a shelter in life’s storm. Can you relate?

A Sad Realization

 Dear Friends, 

I should not have hosted the Japanese Literature Challenge 18.

I have been horrific at visiting, and commenting, on blogs for a long time.

I thought that Japanese literature would give me the boost I needed to rekindle my fire for blogging. For reviewing. For commenting.

But, I am finding that I feel completely overwhelmed in my life with the obligations to which I am committed. So much so, that I have even declined participation in the Shadow Panel for the International Booker Prize 2025, for the first time in ten years.

My comfort is that by now many of you have become quite familiar with Japanese literature; in fact, I hope, with translated literature in general. And, there is this site with reviews of so many great books for you to peruse.

I hope you understand my position, and I hope to return with greater competence than I have shown this Winter. 

(You may see a series of posts I’ve written for Reading Austen 25 which will appear on the Classics Club this March. I read Pride and Prejudice earlier this year to fulfill my commitment to Brona as a host. Perhaps you will like what various hosts have prepared in reading Jane Austen throughout this year.)

Please accept my apologies for this decline,

Meredith

Mina’s Matchbox by Yoko Ogawa

 

So many images flood my mind as I close the cover of this tender book. I see bottles of pale blue soda, called Fressy; a pygmy hippopotamus named Pochiko; a brown Mercedes driven by a suave and elegant uncle; and an asthmatic girl named Mina, whose presence is not only in the cover, but throughout the entire novel.

Mina’s cousin, Tomoko, has come to live with her family. In this way, her mother can continue her education in order to gain a better job. It is during her stay with her relatives, that Tomoko relates the family’s lives. There is Grandmother Rosa, from Germany, who is Mina’s grandmother; her mother, and two gentle Japanese people who help care for the home:  Yoneda-san, the cook, and Kobayashi-san, the gardener.

It is an innocent tale, told by a thirteen year old middle school girl. She tells of the special room where Mina takes “light-baths” to help combat her asthma. She tells of going to the library for Mina, who is far too fragile to make the trip herself, and checking out books such as The House of Sleeping Beauties by Kawabata. The librarian is impressed by Tomoko’s knowledge, which is really only a repetition of Mina’s interpretations.

I am charmed by Mina riding Pochiko to school, in a harness her father has created especially for this purpose. Her father, the president of Fressy, the owner of the aforementioned Mercedes, can do anything. He makes the family laugh. He fixes whatever needs to be repaired. He is endlessly patient and sophisticated. But, he often goes away for long periods of time with no explanation.

That is when his wife goes to the smoking room and quietly drinks her whiskey.

But, when Tomoko makes a discovery, everything seems to change. He stays home. Mina gets better. Life continues, even to the last Christmas celebration that Grandmother Rosa prepares. One with stuffed chicken, a real tree filled with ornaments, and lit candles in every candlestick the house contains. 

I will leave another surprise for you, which is what Mina does with the matchboxes she collects. 

This is a book which most certainly should be included in your Japanese literature awareness. It was a marvelous way to begin the Japanese Literature Challenge 18, as well as the New Year 2025.

The Full Moon Coffee Shop by Mai Mochizuki (translated from the Japanese by Jesse Kirkwood)

I found The Full Moon Coffee Shop to be a pleasant variation on an oft-repeated theme; so many Japanese books with cats as the central characters seem to have seized the market. While I like cats, I am not so fond of astrology, another theme within this book. But, there are other ideas within its pages that gave me pause.

Let’s start with the idea of a “pop-up” cafe appearing when you need it most, and serving delicacies suited just for you. Take for example, a simple glass of water:

…I gazed down at the glass. It was small, slightly curved, and contained three ice cubes and some water. At the gentle impact of the glass being set down on the table, tiny shards of light began to shimmer on the surface of the water, like gold dust. Baffled, I leaned to get a closer look, but the golden specks had disappeared.

 I took a long gulp of water to steady my nerves. It tasted purer than any water I’d ever drunk. As it trickled down my throat, it seemed to dissolve directly into me…

What is more refreshing than water when one is truly thirsty? And, if you’re ready for a snack, how about some of these:

• Full Moon Pancakes have a sphere  of butter and Astral Syrup accompanies them, with a golden shimmer.
• Lunar Chocolate Fondant on a white plate, consisting of a piece of cake out of which thick molten chocolate oozes forth.
• Planetary Affogato has two spheres of yellow ice cream in a glass, which seemed to have been sprinkled with gold dust, and coffee poured over the top.
• Mercury Cream Soda, a beautiful sky blue soda, topped with ice cream and a cherry. The pale gray ice cream is actually lemon sorbet.

These imaginary treats tickled my fancy, and though Christmas decadence has recently ended, I long to indulge in these. I also found myself writing down quotes which seemed applicable to  myself or those around me:

The full moon gives us the power to let things go. That includes negative emotions such as regret, jealousy, or obsession. Those weren’t the only things I wanted to let go of. There was also the fear of what others thought of me. My terror of being criticized. My habit of facing up to the truth. “I think I could do with a bit of letting go,” I murmured. 

and

What I really needed…was to live as comfortably and peacefully as I could in the present. Rather than living in the past and possible future. 

and

Our world is governed by the mirror principle, everything you do in life is reflected back on you in time. Hurt someone, and it’ll rebound on you eventually. Affairs inevitably cause a great deal of pain - especially when there’s family involved. All that suffering will come back to haunt you.

and

If you obsess too much over the restrictions you've placed on yourself, you’ll lose sight of what you really want. Instead liberate yourself. Embrace who you really are.

and 

Throughout my life, I’d always been my harshest critic, constantly policing my own desire. 

As I mentioned earlier in the post, New Age thinking and Astrology do not appeal to me. Instead, I gain my hope and peace from Christ. And yet, there are principles in this book which I can eagerly apply in this new year, such as letting go of others’ opinions, or living fully in the present. I found this book a light, and enjoyable, way to begin the Japanese Literature Challenge 18.

p.s. The collage of pictures is from the artist Chihiro Sakurada, to whom the author credits her story.

Japanese Literature Challenge 18

Welcome! How lovely it is to see this challenge continue on to its eighteenth year. I so appreciate each of you readers. Here is the Review Site for the Japanese Literature Challenge 18. Please leave the link to the book(s) you have read this January and February in the widget below.