One of the many great benefits of working in a library is the constant exposure to books that you may otherwise have not encountered. Or rather, constant access to books you may otherwise have allowed to sit on a To-Read shelf for years until coming across a copy. I've always felt that I needed to read more Japanese literature, being such a fan of so many other art forms from the culture. In the 20th century, the Japanese had many great writers who rivaled the French in their approach to the new novel format. Having spent the last twenty years devouring the French writers, I figured it was time to delve into the Japanese.
(Knopf, 1967)
There was a time in the late 60's and early '70s when Knopf ventured into the world of avant garde literature that was featured on lists by Grove Press and New Directions, and managed to release quite a few now nearly forgotten masterpieces (most notably The Demon Flower by Jo Imog). Though surely not forgotten in its native Japan, this is one of those novels that fits the mold.
In the style of Robbe-Grillet's The Voyeur and Erasers, this is a fragmented detective story on the surface. It follows an unnamed narrator, a detective hired by a woman to find her missing husband. During the course of this futile investigation, the narrator consistently receives unreliable information that leads him in circles, never bringing him closer to his objective. Written in first person, the narration leaves the reader in the same sense of confusion, never quite sure what exactly is going on, but completely aware that there is more going on than either we or the character knows.
The noir facade serves as a metaphor for the loss of identity occurring in the rapid expansion of Tokyo in the late 60's. The sterile suburbs that are being manufacturing seemingly overnight hide the seedy underbelly working behind the scenes, allowing people to easily ignore that it's there. But in the process, they are equally unaware of the manufactured world's ability to erase them out of existence. The sameness of scenery, the blandness of life, all work against the human spirit until one simply disappears into the void.
In the style of Robbe-Grillet's The Voyeur and Erasers, this is a fragmented detective story on the surface. It follows an unnamed narrator, a detective hired by a woman to find her missing husband. During the course of this futile investigation, the narrator consistently receives unreliable information that leads him in circles, never bringing him closer to his objective. Written in first person, the narration leaves the reader in the same sense of confusion, never quite sure what exactly is going on, but completely aware that there is more going on than either we or the character knows.
The noir facade serves as a metaphor for the loss of identity occurring in the rapid expansion of Tokyo in the late 60's. The sterile suburbs that are being manufacturing seemingly overnight hide the seedy underbelly working behind the scenes, allowing people to easily ignore that it's there. But in the process, they are equally unaware of the manufactured world's ability to erase them out of existence. The sameness of scenery, the blandness of life, all work against the human spirit until one simply disappears into the void.
This was the type of book that one should read slowly. There's a lot going on that remains unsaid, forcing you the really exercise your reading skills. But if you do, it's certainly worth it.
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