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Although this is a book review, I will mostly focus on my own memories. Let’s rewind to 2017 when I was still training to become a photographer. At that time, if you wanted to become an advertising photographer in Japan, there was a general theory to follow (though it’s likely collapsed by now). You graduate from a photography school, work as an assistant at a rental studio, then find a mentor and become an apprentice. Under this person, you hone your skills and become independent after a few years. Unintentionally, I followed this path, and at the age of 24, I was on the brink of realizing my dream since I was 15: “I want to make a living through photography.”

However, my contrarian side kicked in. If I continued down this path, a nearly guaranteed future awaited me. But the moment I became an apprentice, I secretly harbored a new dream. I wanted to live abroad. I longed to go somewhere far away, anywhere but here. The feeling grew stronger each day. Fortunately, I had a supportive mentor and parents, so convincing those close to me wasn’t a challenge.

Now, it was time to choose a country. The first idea that came to mind was New York in the U.S., for the simple reason that my mentor had lived there. However, if I spent my meager savings, my dream of living abroad would burst within a month. The cost of living was just too high. Side note: if you remember who became the U.S. president around that time, you can probably understand why my desire to go to America quickly faded. And so, the land of freedom was eliminated from my options.

Next, I turned my attention to Europe. (Looking back, I laugh at my foolishness.) Europe, honestly, I had no idea what it was about. London, Paris, and Berlin seemed like good choices, but they didn’t really resonate with me. Paradoxically, I became tired of agonizing over it and decided to take a literal break in my room.

I’ll save my history of love for books for another time, but back then, I lived alone in Tokyo and had converted my closet into a mini-library. I still clearly remember that moment: on a clear, sunny afternoon, I wanted to read something, so I opened the closet door. Facing a mountain of books, I started touching the spines, pulling one out without much thought. It was Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis. “When did I buy this?” I wondered but didn’t think much of it. It was thin, and it felt just right for the moment. Unaware that my fate was about to change, I casually thought this as I sat down.

Lying on my bed, I opened the pages of The Metamorphosis. I encountered the world’s most famous shocking opening, and it may not have taken me more than an hour to finish reading. Time seemed to melt away. He was a genius. When I finished, with a buzz in my head, the first thing I thought was, “This person was born in the country where I want to go.” That was the moment my destination was decided. I didn’t care where it was. I would go to the place where he was born and raised, and live there. I opened the book again and looked at the inside cover. It said, “Born in Prague, Czech Republic.” …Ah, I see. Czech Republic… where is that?

I laugh now, thinking back to how clueless I was. Thanks to the internet, I quickly learned that the Czech Republic is located in Central Europe. I also discovered that the Czech embassy in Japan was in the district where I lived. So, my destination became clear. I put my phone and wallet in my coat pocket, left my house, jumped on my bicycle, and headed for the embassy. Please, dear readers, do not try this. At the time, I thought I would find some information if I just went to the embassy. I can’t help but shake my head at my younger self.

With frequent checks on Google Maps, I arrived at my destination in about 20 minutes. The Czech flag was fluttering in the wind, so I knew I was in the right place. I parked my bicycle and, naturally, as an outsider, I couldn’t even enter. I wandered in front of the glass doors (thankfully, I wasn’t reported), and when it seemed like I couldn’t get in, I opened the door to an attached facility. It turned out to be a cultural center run by the embassy. Inside, a small woman was organizing bookshelves. She turned around when she noticed me and, apologetically, said, “I’m sorry, we’re on a break between events, so nothing’s happening right now…” I cut her off and asked, “I want to go to the Czech Republic. Just for about a year. What should I do?”

I repeat, dear readers, please do not try this. (Though I doubt anyone would). The kind woman, though surprised by the sudden appearance of a stranger, suggested that if I didn’t have any specific plans, studying abroad might be a good option. She also gave me information about language schools and even her recommendations. So, I decided to go to one of them. Just like that, in a few hours, I had decided on the country and my destination.

As for my dazzling life in Prague, Czech Republic (I ended up enrolling in the school the woman recommended and lived there for a year), I will talk about it in future posts. For now, this story serves as my answer to the million times I’ve been asked, “Why did you choose to live in the Czech Republic?” One day, I was captivated by Kafka, and my life changed. Those who love his works will understand that such power is more than enough to transform a person’s life. Also, those who have visited the Czech Republic will understand the mysterious charm the country holds.

One more story to add: the moment I truly realized that “in the end, humans can only express what is within them.” Finally having moved to the Czech Republic, I became obsessed with the Czech language and long walks. With my camera hanging from my neck, I kept walking endlessly, thinking about Kafka’s works and all kinds of “works” and “authors” in general. It was during a random moment in a random place on an ordinary day.

Until then, I had firmly believed that writing and other “arts” were formed through training and skill. Of course, those are essential elements. However, I realized that my fundamental hypothesis was deeply flawed. Kafka’s works were the quiet cries of his soul. If that wasn’t the case, they wouldn’t have had the power to change a young person’s life. For Kafka, The Metamorphosis was surely the world he saw, the very world itself.

In a near-meditative state, I learned this lesson at the edge of a nameless sidewalk. Under the blue sky, I smiled ironically. And as if to say, “This is all I can do,” I pointed my camera at the landscape before me and, without hesitation, pressed the shutter.

I first became captivated by Haruki Murakami’s work in high school. Around the same time, I was also obsessed with ASIAN KUNG-FU GENERATION, a well-known Japanese rock band. In middle school, I preferred foreign rock bands, but by high school, I had turned my attention to Japanese rock. Looking back now, maybe it’s typically the other way around. Regardless, ASIAN KUNG-FU GENERATION—commonly abbreviated as “Ajikan” in Japanese—was a cornerstone of my youth. My love for them is a topic for another time. 

During that period, biking to the library after school became a routine. One day, as I browsed the Japanese literature section, I noticed something: there was a Murakami novel with the same title as one of Ajikan’s songs, After Dark. That moment began my Murakami journey, which continued throughout high school. Now, as an adult, I’ve returned to read one of his books again, this time drawn in by a casual recommendation on the Kindle Store. “Oh, it’s Haruki Murakami. And this title is pretty long,” I thought to myself, and before I knew it, I had bought it. I finished reading it on February 9, 2021, and even on a quick re-read, I can vividly recall the impressions I had when I first finished it, along with some new thoughts that I’d like to share here.

Upon reading it the first time, I realized something significant: in this world, even expressing one’s own sadness seems to require a kind of silent permission. This is such a complex idea that I want to quote a line from the book to explain it further.

By coincidence, or maybe not, all five were children of ‘upper-middle-class’ suburban families.

In very casual terms, all five of the main characters in this story are “kids from good families.” People like them, who are raised well and seem to live trouble-free lives, are assumed by others to follow a predictable path. They attend good schools, land stable jobs, marry, have kids, and buy a home to settle down. They lead a stable life that looks calm and smooth from the outside. That’s the stereotypical lens society uses to see them. I might have unconsciously looked at them through that same lens too, assuming, “These people must not have any real struggles.”

But this book taught me otherwise. After all, as human beings, everyone—no matter who they are or where they come from—faces challenges. That’s a given. This is certainly true of the main character, Tsukuru Tazaki, who suffers deeply throughout the novel, beginning with the suicidal thoughts he experiences after being abruptly cut off from a close-knit group of friends. This exclusion is, of course, part of the reason for his suffering. But it seems that there is another major reason: he was placed in a “package” labeled “someone who hasn’t suffered,” and he unknowingly accepted this label. There is also a quiet but weighty envy woven into that package—a belief that someone like him isn’t supposed to feel hardship.

People often prefer simple, straightforward stories. We like stories with clear arcs—beginning, middle, and end. There’s a sense of comfort in these narratives. In this way, most “dramas” are categorized into two broad types: the fallen aristocrat and the self-made success story. In both cases, their significant achievements evoke envy from the audience. But their respective arcs—either the fall or the climb—evoke sympathy and understanding, allowing them to ultimately be loved.

But for someone in a more middling position—like Tsukuru Tazaki—their suffering and sadness are harder for the general public to empathize with. Even if that suffering might be profound enough to threaten their life, it’s difficult for them to open up about it. And if they do, they risk being dismissed: “What could someone as privileged as you have to complain about?” Over time, this stigma deepens. Imagining the possibility that someone might get trapped in this kind of dead end and quietly meet their demise genuinely saddened me. This is why I chose to record my thoughts on this book: as a reminder to myself. I want to accept others’ pain and sadness without judgment, to refrain from trivializing or stealing it from them. It’s challenging to consistently do this perfectly, but I want to carry this awareness with me.

That was my first impression after finishing this book. Now, on my second reading, I feel much the same, but I found another passage that resonates with me.

To be alone in a dual sense may, in a way, imply a double negative of isolation.

This thought occurs to Tsukuru when he dines alone in a restaurant while visiting Finland. I was struck by how much this resonated with my own experiences from when I lived in the Czech Republic. Despite my best efforts with the language, I remained visibly a foreigner—a classic “East Asian” tourist, with a camera hanging around my neck. Though I tried my best to blend in, I knew I was still often seen as just a visitor. If people realized that I spoke Czech and lived there, they would suddenly adopt a warmer, more apologetic attitude, which always delighted me. I never resented their initial impressions, because some people, like myself, seek out that “solitary” space by choosing to journey to a foreign land. I hope that this feeling provided Tsukuru with some form of solace as well.

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.