As someone born and raised in the snowy regions of Niigata Prefecture, reading Snow Country felt almost like a duty. However, as an 18-year-old young girl, I struggled with it. I found it too difficult and inaccessible, and after that, I put it aside for good. More than ten years later, I had the chance to spend eight months, including the harsh winter, in the very setting of the novel, in Echigo-Yuzawa. It was January 4, 2024. The wounds from the New Year’s Day earthquake had not healed, and the aftershocks too shook me to go outside. “If not now, when?” I thought, opening the pages. To my surprise, I finished reading it in just three hours. As I read, I found myself constantly murmuring in the lowest voice I could manage, awestruck by Kawabata’s stunning prose that felt like it was lightly striking me in the gut over and over.
 There is abundant information about the famous opening line and the story, so I will skip that part. The first thing I want to highlight from my perspective is the rawness of the dialogue.
When I asked her, ‘What are you counting,’ she kept silent, counting on her fingers for a while.
“May 23.”
“Huh, so you were counting the days. July and August will be a long stretch.”
“Look, it’s the 199th day. It’s exactly the 199th day.”
“But you remember that it was May 23 so well.”
“If I look at my diary, I know it instantly.”
“Your diary? Are you writing a diary?”
“Yes, I enjoy reading my old diary. I write everything honestly, just as it was. So it’s embarrassing to read it alone.”
“Since when,”
 —Not knowing how this would be translated into other languages except Japanese, I’ve paraphrased it. Even with time passing, it still brings that low murmur out of me. If you read closely, you’ll notice that sometimes questions are punctuated with question marks, and sometimes they aren’t. This perfect balance creates a temperature as if you could almost hear their heartbeat. In fiction, dialogue often tends to sound literary (which, at times, makes it hard to approach). However, the conversation between these two characters is so vivid that it feels as if I’ve accidentally eavesdropped on it. It’s truly astonishing. Throughout the novel, Kawabata scrapes out every layer of the human heart, each fold of emotion, in all its grotesque complexity, and counterbalances it with overwhelming descriptions of scenery. It’s all so terrifyingly impressive that it almost brings a dry, cynical smile.
 This work resonates with many, and each reader will likely have a unique attachment to it. But I feel particularly moved because I also grew up in a snow-laden area. Joetsu City, Niigata, where I lived from age 8 to 18, and then from age 27 to 30, was my home for a total of 13 years. In 1927, in Garayama village, snow reached a depth of 8.18 meters, setting a world record for snowfall in a populated area. While that may be an extreme case, snow is practically a part of life—sometimes its main component.
 In winter, bulldozers are dispatched each morning to clear snow for the community. Still, it’s not enough, so our mornings start with shoveling snow, and we end our nights the same way. The weight of snow on the roof can make doors impossible to open. While driving, a snowstorm can create a whiteout, making you think you might die. If you want to freeze food, you just put it outside instead of using a freezer. Even the fridge becomes redundant; the hallway is cold enough to keep things fresh. If you think I’m joking, try asking someone from a snowy region—they’ll likely agree with a straight face and offer many more stories.
 Perhaps the most frustrating part is that, despite the hardships, snow remains incredibly beautiful. Walking alone on a snowy night, I noticed that sound disappeared from the world. Technically, I could hear only the sound of snow falling, surrounding my body. Looking down at my black coat, I could see snowflakes as perfectly detailed as if drawn in a picture. Though my hands and feet were frozen, I felt an odd sense of calm, as if I’d be at peace even if life were to end there. It was a moment of acceptance—a tiny human recognizing the majesty of nature, knowing we can never truly contend with it.
 If I am to compare myself to Kawabata’s characters and draw a contrast with nature, I must admit something. I’ve been to both of their places, the main characters Shimamura and Komako. It’s embarrassing to write, but true nonetheless.
 From a primal perspective, there are appealing people everywhere in the world. …I know I’ll get some disapproving comments here, so let me borrow Shimamura’s voice.
“I find you truly beautiful. You struggle to live, which sometimes makes you guarded, yet you’re shockingly pure. There are moments when you seem to completely forget me, only to immerse yourself in me the next. You’re full of life, and yet somewhere within, you’ve given up on something important. It’s so sad, but that’s why I love you. I could never tell you this, as it would hurt both you and me, but I’m not the one for you. And you’re not the one for me. Still, I love you.”
 This might sum up Shimamura’s thoughts toward Komako. It sounds unbearably selfish, but people seem to emit a particular charm when caught in a state of limbo. I confess I once harbored such feelings for someone, revealing my own selfishness as I reflect. At other times, I have found myself in Komako’s shoes. Yet somehow, I’ve managed to stay on track, thanks to nature’s overwhelming presence that has saved me time and again. Such small, dark stains I create are quickly covered by the endless snowfall whiteness.