You remember this.
And after that, I explored a couple of other genres with Nobody Will Tell You This But Me by Bess Kalb, The Family Upstairs by Lisa Jewell, and Talking to Strangers by Malcolm Gladwell. They were not in the least disappointing. But I think I recently realised why my next (now current) read was Mieko Kawakami’s Breasts and Eggs.
If there’s one thing that’s getting a little too on the nose about English fiction writers, specifically crime, horror, and thrillers, is their desire to write a book in anticipation that it will get picked to be made into a movie. You get what I mean? They paint such a dramatic picture that there is no room for any imagination, sometimes. This genre is soon becoming Netflix during lockdown.
Japanese Literature lacks that entertainment desire and factor, and I love it for the very same reasons. Crisp and wise, they are only concerned with telling you the story as though the author and you are having a conversation, as you both do something on your own, not looking at each other, on a lovely day. Maybe a a lightly noisy fan running on speed 2, because we all know that speed 1 is useless.
Or maybe this is just me.