it's not that i don't find anything to relate to—in fact, as much as this is steeped in a malaise specific and characteristic of Japan's history in WWII, there are character blurs that feel relatable, terrifyingly prescient. but there's no connection to it. there's a repeated narrative tie to a traumatic upbringing, something vaguely pointed at, maybe in fear, or in painful derision... but no way to tie it into itself.

i can't take anything in—from the venom spewed towards women, society as individual, lack of connection, reaching out being so fruitless—when there's nothing there to grasp hold of, no buoy to support yourself in those waters.

that is this novel's greatest fault: crafting a character that should be painfully reminiscent, of some primitive distrust of authority, of the unknown, of the irritating complexities of every connection that's tethered to you, yet lacking the resources to have that same uncertainty with the lead. Yozo isn't some deeply misunderstood character, though there's certainly some merit in understanding his story like that.

he's just been fractured apart. and that's a hard story to make come to any sort of conclusion; the ending is as faint as Yozo's attempts at reckoning with all of those complexities. it's as if, perceived to be slighted by everyone, one instantiates that as their being a lone target instead of some central manifestation of that slighting. change your lenses, and you change others, essentially.

there's an unfortunate historical precedent for the words on the pages, for what Yozo sees in everything and himself, but there's nothing much to it, really. i hope this only falls in the hands of people who cannot relate in such a soul-sucking, self-loathing way. you deserve more than to fall victim to that abject lethargy, and a debilitating rage pointed at anything foreign. because trust me, we all know. we all see it, we all experience it. but there's so many ways out that aren't as bleak and dispassionate.