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.)
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