I have a vaguely vexed relationship with Japanese literature. While I’m fascinated by the culture it describes, I often have difficulty getting into the writing itself, which, at least in English translation, can feel strangely detached or repressed. However, I’m determined to keep at it and, along the way, I’ve found a few books that I’ve enjoyed unconditionally, like the detective novels of Seishi Yokomizo. Spring Garden, which originally caught my attention by virtue of its gorgeous cover, has been on my shelves for a while: now, as the sun grows stronger and the trees burst into blossom, it seems the right time to read it. It falls into the category of ‘evocative but slightly frustrating’: a tale of two lonely people who bond over an old photo-book that records the sky-blue house next door to their block of flats. It’s less a story than a glimpse into someone else’s life – a chance to walk alongside them for a while, without the promise of explanation or catharsis – and it has a bittersweetly nostalgic feel, as Shibasaki explores notions of loss, change and stasis in a world that’s moving too fast...

For the full review, please see my blog:
https://theidlewoman.net/2021/04/26/spring-garden-2014-tomoka-shibasaki/ ( )

I enjoyed reading this novella which won an Akutagawa Prize, but I'm not sure what its point was, or what I was supposed to get out of it.

Taro lives in a soon to be demolished apartment block in which only two other units are occupied. One of the other tenants, Nishi, ignites his interest in a nearby house, which is painted sky blue. Two of the previous occupants of the sky blue house had published a book of photographs of themselves in various rooms of the house, entitling the book "Spring Garden." Nishi and Taro insinuate themselves into the lives of the current occupants of the house, to see and compare the rooms in their current state to the way in which the rooms appeared in the book of photographs. Beyond this nothing much happens, until abruptly, and I thought strangely, about 3/4 through the book, it switches to a first person narrative by Taro's sister who comes to visit him.

Despite this, the language is beautiful. It's a glimpse at life in contemporary Japan for a couple of odd characters, but beyond this I don't see a compelling reason to read it. If this description attracts you, it's not necessarily a waste of time. I just didn't get it.

3 stars ( )

Una mirada magistral a la soledad urbana actual. Una emocionante historia sobre la pérdida, la amistad y los muchos modos en que podemos vivir nuestras vidas. Divorciado y distanciado de su familia, Taro vive solo en uno de los pocos apartamentos ocupados de su edificio, que pronto será demolido. Aunque desde la muerte de su padre se ha vuelto muy reservado, mantiene una inusual relación con su vecina Nishi, quien acabará contagiándole su pasión por la casa azul celeste que hay en su misma calle. Esta casa se convertirá en un símbolo para ambos de lo que han perdido, de todo lo que les ha sidoarrebatado, pero también un último vestigio de esperanza, de aquello que les puede deparar el futuro si se atreven a enfrentarse a sus fantasmas. Una novela delicada e íntima, una emocionante historia sobre la pérdida de identidad de las grandes urbes y los muchos modos en que podemos vivir nuestras vidas.

This novella from Tomoko Shibasaki is brief and insubstantial like a breath of fresh air, pleasant and briefly purifying. It evokes the isolation of living alone with few ties amongst neighbour who are little more than strangers, nameless and indistinct. The main character Toro is recently divorced and has lost his father, he is drifting lethargic and unconnected through his life until he forges a link with his neighbour Nishi through her fixation on a nearby sky-blue house.
It is beautifully written with a clarity of vision and restraint of prose that is remarkable in much Japanese literature and poetry and is perfectly captured in Polly Barton's precise and excellent translation. It does, however, lack an emotional foundation that would make it truly effective. Toro's isolation is accompanied by a passivity and listlessness that leave the novella unfortunately hollow and apart from a strange but moving passage about grinding down his father's bones in order to scatter his remains in the places he loves I fear most impressions will quickly evaporate. ( )

Earlier this week, a kid asked me what Japan was like. Me, having spent less than two weeks in Japan over a decade ago, and so *clearly* an expert, replied "Wacky. Japan is wacky." And there is a lot of wackiness about Japan, like how I spent my first twenty-four hours there pointing at things and saying "I rolled that up in Katamari" or how things -- toilets, restaurants, buttons -- just play music at you. But there's a lot of other stuff about Japan, like the rusty water stains running down the sides of the stucco houses right up next to the shinkansen train tracks, or sitting out on the reclaimed land in Tokyo in April and just how brown and grey and barren everything looks. Spring Garden hits smack between the Cheery Pop Super Love Happy Land of Japan and the just slog of Salarymen and Emptiness and drinking beer depression. Taro is divorced and alone. Nishi moved here because the apartment block is next to a house from a book! Taro has three different ways he can walk from his apartment to the rail station. Nishi stabs herself so she can see a bathroom! They eat octopus and drink beer. They make a friend. The friend moves away. Taro fills his whole apartment with couches! Someone uses the house to film a movie.

And then, bafflingly, the last chapter is told from Taro's sister's perspective, so did Taro die or something? I kept expecting the book to end with him falling, literally, off the fence, and dying because why else would we switch from a third person point to a view to a first person point of view from a character that we've never met before?

So is he dead? Is this all like the alternative, death-God, interpretation of Totoro? I have no idea.

Thus I will finish and say Spring Garden is kinda like a novel or kinda like a string of incidents listed in chronilogical order which may actually be the definition of a novel, I don't know. I guess it's wacky in a non-wacky way, might be the best way to say what it is.

Spring Garden by Tomoka Shibasaki went on sale November 7, 2017.

I received a copy free from Netgalley in exchange for an honest review. ( )