Tokyo Ueno Station - Review

I used to think life was like a book: you turn the first page, and there's the next, and as you go on turning page after page, eventually you reach the last one. But life is nothing like a story in a book. - T.U.S.

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I just read Yu Miri's 'Tokyo Ueno Station' and I have a few thoughts, but also a confession that may be old news for some of you. I lived in Japan for several years, working as a teacher, writer and occasional translator. The world that I entered there has shaped and sharpened my view of the world to the point that I am continually referring back to my life there in comparison with my return to Canada. And that is a difficult thing to do.

The book feels like Camus' 'The Outsider' and Doestoyevsky's 'Notes from Underground' set in Tokyo, and is narrated by a homeless man named Kazu. He haunts Ueno Park, a very popular stop for tourist who want to find some greenery in the middle of Tokyo, or make a stop at one of the six museums there (Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum is mentioned here). And his whole life is shared with us, along with fragments of the lives of those we want to forget.

Yes, those lives... We all try to ignore them. We see them sleeping on concrete under cardboard roofs; we see them holding doors for us as they dangle a paper cup and ask us for change. We saw them in that park living under blue tarp - it always seemed to be blue - as they made nice little gardens and spaces for themselves and even sold goods that others tossed away (manga was always a popular item). And then we got on with our day...

• Attach...to a visible...part of the exterior of your baggage.
• This number...cannot be borrowed or transferred...to someone else.
• Do not look after...other people's belongings.

- a short list of what must be done with tents in the park (August 2012)

Ms. Miri is not one of those people who could just move on. Born Korean-Japanese as a Zainichi, she faced a great deal of abuse and racism as a child, attempting suicide and eventually dropping out of school after years of bullying. Eventually, she joined an acting troupe, wrote plays and performed them, and became an award-winning author in her adopted land. And she does us the great favour of not looking away.

Kazu's life is one that many Japanese - whether they are native or have foreign ancestry - can relate to: born in a small town, he finds love and work that separates him from his family (he even finds work with the 1964 Tokyo Olympics). He also loses several of the loves of his life (the loss of a son who shared a birthday with the Emperor is rendered painfully on the page). And then, he decides to take a train...

The book begins on a platform and ends on the same one, with sound and language bringing me back to what I recall was quite common on particular subway and train lines:

The train now approaching Platform Two is bound for Ikebukuro. Please stand behind the yellow line.

I wondered about this. Even the narrator seems confused by this...and yet it is all clear once you consider that this is all a first-person tale (a very popular form in Japanese literature): something that has been lost after such a long time suddenly rushes back to him. We have all been there. And that is where the horror underneath the story lies: this is a ghost story. That last noise was Kazu's last noise. And it will haunt him forever.

One other striking thing: the inclusion of religion into the story. Shintoism and Buddhism are discussed with a great deal of respect and interest (not something seen very often in recent literature). I wondered if that sort of comfort was being criticized or condoned. For the ones left behind by their society, this is something that may not provide a simple response.

There are no easy answers here. The story is so common on our city streets that we may not feel the shock that this book provides. I know that Ms. Miri has another book out this year and I will be reading it soon. But I urge all of you to please find a copy of 'Tokyo Ueno Station,' a slim tale with layers that we cannot afford to forget.

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