Sympathy Tower Tokyo by Rie Qudan (What would we call a tower for people who make good choices and live responsibly?)

Architect Sara Machina has designed a tower to be built in the center of Tokyo for criminals. I'm sorry, I mean victims. For in the current line of thought, morally corrupt individuals like Masaki Seto have reimagined what it means to commit crimes.

“Seto proposes the neologism “Homo Miserabilis”  - meaning “those deserving of sympathy” - to replace the conventional label of “criminal.” By contrast, Seto identifies those previously considered “non-criminals” as “Homo Felix,” in other words those who are “happy” or “fortunate” in life…These new perspectives underpin a fundamental reassessment not only of criminal actions but of societal structures at large, and are crucial in realizing a framework for greater social inclusivity and well-being.” p. 23

I am resentful of the way that personal responsibility for one’s life is so often excused today. There is always a reason, it seems, that people don’t have to be accountable for the decisions they make and the consequences which follow. But, it doesn’t seem that the Architect, Sara Machina, adheres to the “blaming others for my problems” philosophy. She is a determined person, and one who values the power of language. 

“If I used weaker materials - words like “maybe” or “could,” as fragile as sand before it met cement - how could I expect to keep myself in one piece for the several decades I had left to live? It didn’t matter that they were just words, words with no physical form of their own: If I didn’t strip them from my interior, they would render my foundations unstable.” (p. 43)

Masaki Seto persists, however, in justifying the placement of cruminals victims in the newly built luxurious tower:

“Preparations for its (the tower) construction are well underway with completion planned for 2030. I eagerly await the day when those we know now as Homo Miserabilis move out of the wretched prisons in which they have so far been housed and into the beautiful and pristine setting of this central Tokyo-tower.” (p. 50)

Who of us doesn't live in a “wretched prison” of some sort? This world is full of pain, of disappointment, of evil which must be battled every day. By every one of us. We are not victims unless we choose to be.

In other words, in the vast majority of cases, before they were “criminals” or “offenders,” these people were victims. Victims who, because they couldn’t explain their circumstances to others, have never received the care or support they needed. (p. 55) 

I think that at one time or another, in all of our lives, we need “care and support”which seems elusive. We don our courage, hopefully, and carry on.

 “…a clash of opinion can take the shine off something beautiful.” p. 80

It was relieving to me, that the more I read, the more I realized that the author, Rie Qudan, is not condoning the viewpoints of which I have taken such offense. Instead, through dialogue and the narrative of other characters, such as Takt (who works in a designer clothing shop), or Max Klein (a journalist), Qudan shows us how unproductive it would be to house a segment of society, at no cost to them. Max writes:

“…I found myself wondering if there was any difference at all between the life of a Miserabilis and that of some celebrity lounging away their afternoons in a luxury Shinjuku high rise. I guess one big difference is that, unlike celebrities, the Miserabilis aren’t allowed to leave the premises…Another difference is that celebrities have to pay astronomical rent themselves, whereas the Miserabilis have their existence funded by the taxes levied on the hard work of all the people living outside the tower…FU-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-CK!!! I shouted. “I want to live in the damn Dojo-to!” (p. 135)

There’s such a poignant irony depicted in this scene. Who doesn’t need care and compassion? Who doesn’t want to live in a beautiful, pristine, sophisticated tower in central Tokyo rent free?  It is easy to forget what Robert Heinlein write years ago in his book The Moon is a Harsh Mistress:“There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.” 

I am mesmerized by Sympathy Tower Tokyo, which is so deserving of the Akutagawa prize for Qudan’s imaginative, and deeply thought-provoking writing. She has woven today’s philosophies, with today’s societal problems, technologies, and language, into a most insightful novel.  One which so aptly depicts a world into which we may be headed, if we aren’t living in it already.

Snow Country Read-along, Anyone?

This masterpiece from the Nobel Prize-winning author and acclaimed writer of Thousand Cranes is a powerful tale of wasted love set amid the desolate beauty of western Japan. • “Kawabata’s novels are among the most affecting and original works of our time.” —The New York Times Book Review

When I saw that Karen, of Literary Excursions, posted Snow Country by Yasunari Kawabata as one of her potential choices for the Japanese Literature Challenge 19, I got all happy inside. It seems the perfect choice for Japanese literature and Winter. When she suggested a buddy-read, I was even happier.

So now, we open up this reading experience to any of you who wish to join us. Here’s the plan: Snow Country is a 192 pages written in two parts. We will read, and post about Part One, on January 9. We will post about Part Two on January 16. 

Feel free to read and post about it with us, we’d love to have you.

Review Site for the Japanese Literature Challenge 19

This is the place where you can leave a link to the books you have read for the Japanese Literature Challenge 19, as well as visiting other readers who are participating. I’m looking forward to seeing what it is that you will choose, from short stories to classics to contemporary fiction. Your participation is always a great enrichment to my own reading life as I learn of a new title, or a new insight, regarding a book I have previously read.

I will make the button in my sidebar connected to this post so it will be easily accessible.

Perhaps you would like to start with an introductory post sharing your reading plans in Japanese literature January and February? 

ありがとう

Arigatō, or thank you,

Bellezza

Sunday Salon: “A Little Sweetness”

For as long as I have known him (Interlochen National Music Camp, 1977), my friend Kevin and I have shared smiles about Winnie The Pooh. Specifically the episode where Pooh brings a pot of honey for Eeyore’s birthday, and eats it on the way. Piglet brings a balloon, and falls on it in the way, such that it is a bit of limp rag when it is delivered.

“Great,” says Eeyore, “an empty pot and something to put in it.”

Last night, Kevin sent the drawing at the top of the post.

It makes me smile, because there is something to be said for joy in the empty things. The things that might not be what you expected. 

May you find joy, not disappointment, in the unexpected this Christmas. 

Japanese Literature Challenge 19 (to come)

 

Snow at the Shrine Entrance by Kawase Hasui 

I’m drawn to this print for several reasons. For one thing, it is Japanese. For another, it is Winter, which is my favorite season of all. Lastly, it shows a person walking through a gate. 

Are they leaving something, or someone, behind? Are they headed toward a new adventure? Are they stepping in to worship, or simply to stroll? There is a lot for me to contemplate, as I, too, find myself embodied in this figure.

I began the Japanese Literature Challenge in 2006. In many ways, it has fostered a greater awareness and affection for Japanese literature, both for myself and for other readers. Tony, in particular, comes to my mind, for the ways that he has shared this love of translated literature and gone on to host January in Japan. I can think of many others who have faithfully participated, such as Emma and Nadia, too many to name, really. 

When Winter comes, when I think toward what I’ll read in January, it always focuses on Japanese literature. Yet, I find myself challenged this year, not because of my blog, necessarily, but because of my heart. Literally. In May, I passed out cold such that my husband called an ambulance to carry me off to the hospital. Since then, I have had a series of tests done, and it appears I need surgery on my heart this December. No one is more surprised than I am.

So, I will host the Japanese Literature Challenge, but I must warn you: I am not certain how involved I can be. If nothing else, it can be a central spot to leave your reviews and find others, and that is surely a lovely thing. I will do my best to respond as I can, to visit you and share what I read myself.

If this plan sounds acceptable to you, do join us. We will read from January, 2026 through February, as usual. All Japanese works in translation apply.  I will leave a link to the review site in my side bar, where I have also left a list of a small sampling of titles for you to peruse. 

Until January, then, if not before. 🇯🇵❤️

The Widow by John Grisham

 

If there was ever a case for reading literature in translation, John Grisham’s latest book, The Widow, would  make an excellent one. My goodness, reading this book is arduous. 

The writing consists of horribly stilted sentences. There is no instance where he shows us the character rather than telling us who he is outright. There seems to be a mishmash of each of his previous legal thrillers included into his latest. 

So, why am I reading it? I am curious to find out if the eponymous widow does in fact have the millions she has claimed to have inherited upon her husband’s death. And, I vaguely want to find out who killed her by putting thallium in the ginger cookies her lawyer brought to her hospital room, because we know it wasn’t him.

But, truly, there is a reason I haven’t read a John Grisham book in a while, which is the same reason I won’t be picking up another of his books any time soon: like a loaf of Wonder Bread, they could all be squeezed into one slice.

(I am perusing my shelves and my stacks of translated literature, for as Winter approaches, I find myself longing for Japanese fiction. Still. Is there any interest in a Japanese Literature Challenge 19 to begin this January?)

Flesh by David Szalay

 

Credit here.

Usually, I have no words for how horrified I am by the books which judges have selected to win a certain literature prize. (James by Percival Everett, which won the Pulitzer Prize this year, comes to mind as the most recent travesty.)

But, I have just closed the cover of Flesh, by David Szalay, and I am powerless to describe its impact. I am, after all, a reader, not a writer.

May I tell you, that without a doubt, it is the best book I have read all year. It is a masterpiece of fiction, outstanding in every way, and I would be remiss not to tell you this in my half forgotten blog. 

I applaud the judges for the Booker Prize 2025. They have awarded the prize to the most worthy piece of literature this year, restoring my faith in the recognition of truly outstanding writing. 

For that is what David Szalay has offered.

The Nights Are Quiet in Tehran by Shida Bazyar…a quietly beautiful book for Women in Translation Month 2025…for the Historical Fiction Challenge 2025

How is it that you can make people stay somewhere they want to leave, and make people leave who want to be there? (p. 111)

In 1979, when Shida Bazyar begins her novel, I was a senior in high school. I was not concerned with politics, or religion, or being oppressed by my government. I knew little of the terror under which other people in the world were living by the so-called leaders of their country, although I did know of the Shah. Of the Iranians holding 52 Americans hostage for 444 days, under Jimmy Carter’s presidency.

The Nights Are Quiet in Tehran begins with the perspective of Behzad. He is a young revolutionary in Iran, working against the Shah’s regime with his friends Peyman and Sohrab. He is in love with beautiful Nahid, who will only look down, demurely, when he tries to make a connection with her. 

When I look at her, because I can’t help it, because there is no other face in this room and in this country that I want to look at so much, she quickly looks elsewhere, as if her head had never been turned to this corner of the room where I am sitting and waiting, and there is a little smile on her lips, as intelligent and proud as the rest of her. (p. 55)

When Peyman is arrested, Behzad knows it is time for him as well; surely his name is on some list, too.

We follow the story to 1989, this time from Nahid’s perspective. She is a young mother now, living in East Germany, an Iranian in exile. How ironic, I think, to go from the oppression in Iran to the oppression of communism in East Germany. (I lived in Germany when the Berlin Wall was still up. I know what it was like there.) But there, at least, she has freedom to dress as she chooses, to make friends with the neighbors and mothers of her children’s school friends. Yet freedom has a price. What if her daughter chooses to sit in boys’ laps, to sit laughing on a wall, wearing bright colored leggings?

Then I think that I never want to walk down here and see my Laleh sitting by the fountain. My Laleh on a boy’s lap, without the love from Hafez’s words. It’s lucky that my Laleh will never be an adult here, and I’ll never lose her to a fountain and brightly colored leggings; by the time she’s that age, we’ll be back, Khomeini will be dead, everything will be different, everything better, and until then I will keep saying no when she asks for chewing gum - that might be how it all starts, first she starts chewing gum, and in a few years she’ll want to sit by the fountain in brightly colored leggings. (p. 102)

And now this daughter, Laleh, is telling us of taking a trip back to Tehran in 1999. Her little sister moves her head to the sound coming from her Sony Walkman; her brother, Mo, puts down his Game Boy to have his passport photo taken. She tucks her hair back under the hajib she must wear now that she is no longer living in the “freedom” of East Germany. Freedom…what a relative word.

The nights are quiet in Tehran. The days, so loud. The people in the house so loud, talking so loudly about unimportant things and hesitating so loudly about unimportant things. Their laughter so loud, the names they call out so loud, the way they say those polite sentences so loud, throwing them out like breathing, their presence so loud, fabric-swathed bodies in a protected space, the clatter of crockery so loud, as they cook, eat drink tea - a constant silvery, dry clatter of one thing against another. (p. 141)

It is Mo’s turn to continue the story, in the year 2009. He is living a college student’s life in Germany: drinking too much, sleeping too little, while unrest abounds. He witnesses the upheaval arising from the Iranian presidential election, during which protesters demand Mahmoud Ahmadinejad be removed from office because they see it as a fraudulent election. (Is there any country which doesn’t accuse the leader of being fraudulently elected?! We face it ourselves, in America, which I had once believed to be fair and true…almost above reproach.)

It has taken me several days to read this book of only 266 pages, for the concepts of oppression and freedom, family and individuality, are so familiar. They are themes so applicable to any of the decades which have gone before us, and they will be applicable to those yet to come. We have much to learn from our mistakes, and it is difficult to hope that peace is attainable.

Thank you to Scribe Publications for sending me this gorgeous book. I’m so glad you brought it to us, to me.

On The Calculation of Volume II by Solvej Balle “…I was never going to be able to escape from the eighteenth of November.”

…I go on writing, conscious that my loose sheets of paper may contain my last hope that this fault in time is only temporary, the hope that the next sheet will never be filled, because time will return to normal and there will be no more eighteenths of November to write about. (p. 65)

When I read On Calculation of Volume I, I couldn’t understand the parameters of Tara Selter’s new life. She wakes up to the eighteenth of November over and over and over again. Her husband is shocked when she comes home, much like Lucy’s siblings in The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe when Lucy comes back from the visiting Mr. Tumnus. “I’m here,” she shouted. “I’m here. I’ve come back. I’m all right.” But, time is a funny thing; in some ways it isn’t the same for everyone. 

“So,” I thought, “if Tara is living the same day on repeat, aren’t the people around her living the same day, too?” Now I see, with On The Calculation of Volume II, that there is a fault in time. And Tara is the only one who is aware of it. 

She constructs seasons for herself, with the help of a meteorologist she has met. She travels to different cities to meet the longing she has for different seasons. Stockholm in November is Winter. To encounter Spring she travels to London where the names of foods in her grocery cart will have to suffice: spring greens, spring onions and a plastic tub of spring soup. 

I left the shop clutching a little bagful of spring, not much, but enough for me to feel that I was in the right track. (p. 105)

Early Summer is found on a beach in Montpellier, where there is sun in the middle of the day. Tara has begun a seasons book, as she calls it, where she records the places she has visited and the temperatures there. (Later, when her bag containing this green, cloth covered notebook is stolen, I can’t help but think of the irony that the seasons themselves have been stolen from her.)

It occurs to Tara, in Düsseldorf, that she cannot make time change. She cannot make it speed up to where she wants it to be.

You can’t jump-start a year however closely you follow the meteorologists’ graphs and calculations and you can’t construct a year out of fragments of November. It cannot be done. I try not to think about years. It isn’t easy, but now I will think about days. (p. 139)

How much do the months, and days, govern our lives?  

What is time, anyway? 

Here there is only a neutral, gentle November day, because my time is not a circle, and it is not a line, it is not a wheel and it is not a river. It is a space, a room, a pool, a vessel, a container. It is a backyard with a medlar tree and autumn sunshine. Coffee and sunshine on a day in November. Danke. (p. 146)

Maybe, what Balle is hinting at, is that time is now. The moment you are currently enjoying. The place where you are currently living. The life you are currently experiencing. I know it has done me little good to wish for what was, or to wonder what will be. That is no way to live, either. 

My search is no longer a hunger, it is not a longing or an urge. I frequent lecture halls and cafeterias, museums and libraries, and when the day is over I go back to my place. I let myself in and I know: I will never find the explanations I seek. I will only find new questions and new answers. (p. 183)

This is as appropriate an ending I can find to a book’s premise which encompasses time. Place. Connection. Meaning. What do we know? We can only find new questions and new answers, and, I think, accept the moment in which we dwell.

Sunday Salon: We’re Sitting on Hell’s Front Porch

Do not be deceived that this cool and shadowed path is what I am enjoying this Summer. It has been above 90 degrees for what feels like most of July, and I am chafed and irritable. As much as I dislike the Halloween displays all around me in Walgreen’s and Jewel, which have completely bypassed the Back to School displays, I am ready for Autumn.

Does this picture from last October not appeal?

Lest I continue complaining, I will share some highlights of the week. It was my parents’ 70th wedding anniversary. As I found it impossible to find cards for celebrating so many years, I put together this little olive tree for them. They don’t need things, but we do need to be reminded of life. Of growth.

I had fun celebrating Bullet Journal Day on August 8, with the Livestream hosted by Ryder Carroll and Jessica Chang. I felt honored to have my question chosen to be addressed. But, at the end of the day, I find myself needing to journal as I have always done: record my thoughts, feelings, and events for memory and clarity. I do not like to dwell on Habit Trackers, Gratitude Logs, Daily/Weekly/Monthly Reflections. Too much navel gazing is not good for me. I much prefer a Highlight/Insight page at the end of each journal.

And reading? I have had a lovely time reading On the Calculation of Volume I by Solvej Balle. The Shadow Jury for the International Booker Prize deemed this the worthy winner, and while it did not officially win, I wholeheartedly concur. I was fortunate to find On The Calculation of Volume II at our library, and I will be reviewing them both in the week to come.

May your week ahead be blessed. May you be cooler than I am. May you find lovely things to write about. And, find more about others’ week at Sunday Salon here.

It’s Bullet Journal Day, and Ryder Carroll Answered My Question on His Livestream

I have loved to journal since I learned to write. Before Social Media was even a thing, and long before Bullet Journal was born, before I could spell “Winnipeg” on the train trip I took with my Grandmother at the age of five, I was recording my thoughts and adventures in whatever notebook I could find. It was not only easy to do, it was necessary to my peace. I have never had to find a routine, or be consistent. I simply had to write.

 

Then came the awareness of Travelers Factory Company notebooks. Paper Republic journals. Hobonichi Techos. I went down the journaling rabbit hole revealed to me on Instagram and now have an embarrassing large collection of each brand. (This photo shows only a part.)

Don’t get me wrong. Each vegetable tanned journal, or limited edition cover, each size of Traveler’s Notebook, has been a joy.  I have taken them to Switzerland, Italy and Japan. I have written in my own quiet study. And I have kept awake into the night pondering which I should use consistently.

Then came the Bullet Journal. What an idea! Record your thoughts in bullets! Now they are categorized into an acronym for NAME: N (Note), A (Action), M (Mood), and E (Event).  It’s easy to capture what is happening, how you are feeling, what you are thinking or doing with a simple bullet point.

But, where does the journaling I’ve done all my life come in? How can I adapt the speed of my pen, which matches the speed of my thoughts, to a single point? And so, while listening to the Bullet Journal Livestream today, I asked this question:

“How can I incorporate long form journaling, which may examine feeling too much? (I have journaled in long form for decades, and it is my preferred method of journaling.)”

I was amazed when I saw my question appear on the screen. Apparently, it was deemed worthy of answering…

The first thing Jessica Chang said, after she read it out loud, was that it sounded like a lot of self judgement was going on. (Imagine her discerning that from the first part of my question alone!) But then, Ryder answered it like this (paraphrased):

Bullet points anchor myself. What is most alive for me? I can unpack it in a long form entry. Long form journaling can be immensely valuable, but it is too time consuming for me…Long form journaling is getting an idea of what’s happening; get to the purpose of why.

I realized that Ryder’s ADHD has required him to journal one way, and I journal in a completely other way. But, that is the beauty of his system: it is flexible enough to adapt to the journaler’s needs. And, I loved how he suggested that those who keep a bujo need to determine why something is going on, and why they are reacting to it in a certain way. What changes need to be made to meet your intentions? 

There was so much meaningful content in this livestream today, which can be found on YouTube. I can see how the Bullet Journal system has evolved over the twelve years it has been in existence, and it is so very much more than what I’ve seen online: pasting down cute stickers, and highlighting headers with Mildliners, and calling it “journaling.”